If Then
by MaijiMary Huang
Summary: Would you believe a man who claims to have fallen from the sky? A reimagining of the SO2 story, if Claude hadn't landed so conveniently in Shingo Forest. Dias' perspective. UPDATED: let me tell you something about fate.
1. PROLOGUE welcome to arctura iv

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**welcome to arctura iv**

He felt like his head was going to explode.

_Damn it …_

He winced tightly; it was difficult to see. Soaking, wet skin and hair, body chilled to the bone; the sensation and sound of the rain were like drills boring into his skull. He could barely discern the dark figures surrounding him; the edges of his awareness were shaky, fading into things beyond his consciousness.

There were too many of them, whoever they were, and they had caught him at the worse possible time: more than off-guard, more than defenceless. Senses disoriented by neither the unfamiliar surroundings nor the unrelenting downpour; but by the nonstandard teleportation he'd been ripped through only minutes ago.

No smooth, gentle data stream conversion; it had been an instant of indescribable, searing fire, tearing his molecular structure apart and flinging it halfway across the universe for an unceremonious reassembly.

Another fist smashed into his gut, setting him coughing. Redness sputtered against the ground, mingling with the rainwater. He collapsed onto his knees: sick, gasping for breath, feeling the air darken around him.

A muffled thud against the muddy ground, and he knew nothing.

…

"_-Roger. Determining status of Federation Service Number 1449-2356-8733-1292G."_

A pause, followed by a series of confirmative beeps.

"_Ensign Kenni, do you read?" _The woman's voice was melodious and calm, trained to flow with clarity and efficiency even in the face of panic. _"This is the_ _Battleship _Calnus_, on standby and requesting receipt of coordinates for relocation on-board. Repeat, Ensign Kenni …" _

The invisible transmission beamed deep into space, sweeping across vast years of light, piercing the dusty veil of numerous galaxies. It reached out: searching, straining blindly for a single target amongst the dense ocean of stars.

In Theta Sector, deep within the unsurveyed Arctura cluster, something alien awoke.

In a place where such distances would have been unimaginable, the handheld communicator sputtered to life, receptors working furiously to process data.

_- galactic federation service number 1449-2356-8733-1292G …_

_determining status … completing system self-analysis … -_

A neat, uniform string of symbols scrolled rapidly across the flickering screen, almost exactly in time with the glimmering rain, the flashing sky.

_- damage tolerance exceeded 003.14159-_

_initiating automatic emergency response system-_

_initiating mayday transmission … -_

"_Fed … ss … m … day …may … d … ay …" _it managed to hack out, the confirmative output barely audible against the tempest. The power flow from the energy cells wavered, the transmission cutting short.

Undaunted, the system stubbornly attempted again. But the de/reconstructive strain experienced in the transportation process had been too much for its energy cells; the communicator had not yet stabilized enough. The interface began to flash with an increasing intensity, every generated data string less steady than the one before, as though being beaten into the ground by the external elements.

Peripheral systems and diagnostic programs began to set themselves up in the background, trying to make repairs; but each launch soon hit a wall of insufficient resources, each one shutting down soon after the other. The remainder of the original verbal alert disintegrated into static waste, lost in the pounding rain, the caustic lightning.

But even if the operating system had not been overloaded, even if the stream had been processed successfully, even if the weather had not drowned out the dispatch, it would not have made a difference. A world away, the _Calnus_' signal grew weak from travel – wavering, thinning, and finally dissipating altogether. Where the starship's voice could not go, its receptors could not hear. The communicator's own signal barely managed to penetrate the outer layer of the planet's atmosphere, beyond the limits of the battleship's reception.

_- OUT OF RANGE -_

it reported, bold letters flashing across the screen one last time.

Then everything died.


	2. ONE a vagrant

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**ONE**

**a vagrant**

The tracks were still fresh. He'd been hunting them for two days; it was only a matter of time before he caught up.

As always. His gaze was stoic, observant, his head cocking to get a better look at every detail, long strands of blue falling across his shoulder as he bent down. One boot trailed the edge of a print, already beginning to fade into the damp earth. One gloved hand brushed against sharp branches, noting where they had been split and broken by a rough passage.

It was quite a large group, about eight.

_Here._

A small, narrow clearing against the dense trees. Scuffs, an indentation in the ground.

_A confrontation- no, an ambush. A group against one, over quickly. Only a bit of blood. _

Something old and ugly stirred in the back of his thoughts.

_Cowardly pigs._

In his mind's eye, he could see a little girl, her thick blue hair flying in the wind as she ran, arms outstretched; laughing, tripping over her own feet in her exuberance. She fell, tumbling a short distance.

When she got up, her hair was tangled and matted, dirt smeared across her face. Eyes, terrified and wild. She stared in shock at the two corpses soaking in their old blood.

Mother, and father. Father, and mother.

_Run._

_Run! _Her gaze was blank, her body frozen to the spot. She blinked, once, twice, and slowly began to back away.

_No, don't – _

She screamed.

An unseen man cursed, spat at her. She was shrieking hysterically now, the sound rising higher still as another man grabbed her by the hair, dragging her small body along the jagged ground. He couldn't see her anymore, but he could still hear her, screaming and screaming, even from his prone position. He heard the muffled scrape of metal, and the timbre of her voice changing abruptly.

_And he stabs her, the sharp knife plunging into her shoulders, neck, head. After she falls down, the other man kicks her, over and over and over and over and over-_

Choking gags, a wet gurgling, and then silence.

_That was a long time ago._

He remembered how long ago it was.

Every day. _And that is why …_

He tossed his head to clear his thoughts, refocusing them and turning his attention back on the tracks he had found. He crouched down, one knee to the ground.

The more he examined the evidence, the more he realized how odd this struggle seemed. First, the location. Since the falling of the so-called Sorcery Globe and the dramatic increase in hostile monsters, there were very few people who would wander, unaccompanied, so deep into the woods. Particularly not this area, with the bandit presence well-known by all the locals he had spoken to. Whoever had been ambushed here had either come knowingly, with purpose – whatever purpose that may be – or was an extremely lost traveller. Then, there was the result. To provoke this sort of conflict with such a large group … it was strange that there was no body. Nor any evidence that someone had met an untimely end.

_Strange._

The footprints, of course, continued deeper into the forest. Wherever they ended, answers would be found.

Getting to his feet again, Dias resumed his hunt.

…

It was nearing nightfall again when he finally tracked the brigands to their base.

Two entrances, exactly as he had gathered from his investigations. He could see the outline of horses tied up by the trees, clearly indicating which one the bandits had used. He moved silently towards the other entrance, staying a good distance downwind, avoiding the possibility of skittish beasts that could give him away.

He entered the underground passage cautiously, one hand against the rocky wall.

The first chamber he came upon was still, very still; it seemed to be a storage of sorts, poorly organized, with empty crates stacked on their sides and cluttering the room. A lantern hung from a hook, set deep into the cavern wall. The shadows mimicking the dancing fire were the only motion visible. There didn't seem to be anyone in this area.

_No, wait. _In the corner, barely discernable from this distance, in the dim light. He could see a motionless figure lying on a crude floor made of wooden planks: head tucked in towards the chest, body curled up in a fetal position. As he neared, he could tell that the ankles were bound tightly together, arms tied behind the back.

_A hostage?_ Dias recalled the ambush he happened upon earlier in the day.

Closer now, he made out a faint breathing, soft and fairly regular, somewhat muted and distorted by a gag.

Whoever he was, he was still out of it.

Dias knelt down, studying the unconscious form. It was a young man with short, pale blond hair, long bangs falling over closed lids, partially obscuring the face in subdued shadows. Mud and dried blood splayed down the side of his head, across his cheek. In spite of this, even in the poor lighting, one could see that his complexion was fair, out of place in these surroundings. Apart from his injuries, which must have been sustained in that attack, he seemed to be in good health.

In very good health, actually.

The chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. The stranger was dressed in a simple black shirt, sleeveless; stained white pants, encrusted with dirt at the knees …

… And the most bizarre shoes Dias had ever seen. Thick as boots, but low-cut; glossy in texture and heavy in appearance, with unrecognizable patterns, emblems and straps. He glanced back at the hostage's face.

_Odd. _The man's features seemed vaguely familiar, but Dias couldn't place it.

The swordsman soundlessly got to his feet again, scanning the remainder of the cramped chamber. Noticing a small heap of items piled carelessly on the ground, he proceeded towards it, looking it over.

The items must have belonged to the young man; they matched the strange shoes he was wearing. The cropped coat, the fingerless gloves – not only were the designs peculiar, but the material caught light like nothing he'd ever seen.

Dias crouched down again, removing one glove, reaching out to run a hand along the material. Durable yet pliable, impossibly smooth, yielding easily to the touch. At the same time, it seemed unaffected by the dirt on the ground, which brushed effortlessly off its surface. He picked up the coat, examining it.

In one pocket, he found yet another unfamiliar object.

Whereas the other items were at least recognizable in function, this one was completely alien to him. It seemed metallic, but had been hammered into, again, an impossibly smooth sheen and shape. There were no rough spots, no sharp corners anywhere. At one end, a small knob could be pulled out, extended, and pushed back in. Inset against the metal was a glass-like material, with illegible symbols and runes running across it, constantly changing. Below the square of glass, there was a soft, malleable pad inscribed with similar runes, and each rune could be pressed in.

Without warning, it let out a single beep. Dias blinked in surprise.

There was a light, wooden squeal behind him. He dropped the device back on the pile of clothing, whirling around, hand immediately at the hilt of his blade.

Piercing, bright eyes, a startling blue, glared back at him alertly. Shoulders were tense, the entire body ready to react.

_- wasn't really asleep ... ?_

Somehow, in spite of his bound predicament, the youth had managed to silently roll and maneuver himself into an upright position. But when he shifted his weight to maintain balance, the uneven planks he was kneeling on betrayed him.

"Shh," Dias hissed, shaking his head. _No._ He had to make it clear that he wasn't one of the brigands before the other man did something stupid. He still had no idea where the bandits were – at least eight of them at a safe estimate, from the tracks he'd been following earlier in the day.

_If they realize an intruder is here – _His mind settled in relief as he saw understanding dawn immediately in the clear eyes, shoulders relaxing. Slightly.

He put his glove back on. "I don't know who you are," he continued in low tones, just audible enough for the other man to hear, "but I don't want you getting in my way." He turned to exit the room; there was nothing else here. Looking over his shoulder, he warned: "Don't move. I'll untie you after I take care of them."

The other man glowered, displeased, but did not make a move.

_Good._

As Dias continued down the passage, he could hear voices; faint, muted at first, but steadily increasing in volume. He paused, half-crouching, against the chamber opening. It was hard to tell how many there were; the reverberation in the cavern was distorting the voices, and they kept talking over one other.

"You see all the stuff he had with him?"

"Some real fancy Heraldry goin' on there, I'd say."

"Don't seem to do anything, though. 'Cept that square thing, made a bit of noise but not much else."

A jeer. "Scared _you _though."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"You both shut up. We kin ask later. We got time. Garl and the rest are checking out the other one right now."

"Looked promising."

"What do you think it is, some weapon?"

"No idea."

"How much you think they going to fetch?"

"Like it matters. We got a king's ransom right there!" A guffaw, the slapping of a hand against the table at the literality of the statement.

"You sure?" a raspy voice was saying. "To find 'im around here- "

The indignant rattling of glass being slammed down. "'Course I'm sure. Seen him times over and over again 'round the castle." There was a loud gulp, the swilling of strong beer – he could smell it, even from here – and an uninhibited belch. ""He ran away less than a fortnight ago-"

"Yeah, yeah. We all know the story, that arranged-marriage thing."

Dias raised an eyebrow.

A snort of derision. "Nobles, think they know it all. Can't see a thing past their face and finery. Makes sense he's lost out here. Serves 'im right."

"Serves us right, too." Snickers.

"Frankly, me, I don't get that kind of thinking. Power, money, a pretty face – what else you want?"

"S'long as she's good down there, if you know what I mean." The voice wavered suggestively, drawing lewd laughs of agreement.

The rest of the conversation turned to bawdy descriptions and wild tales that left nothing to the imagination. The swordsman ignored the bantering and focused on the useful details he'd overheard.

_Of course._ The bandits had explained a great deal. The hostage's complexion and physical condition – extremely healthy and fit, but barely any signs of days spent under the sun, nor any harsh manual labour. _And no wonder he looked familiar._ As a mercenary who had handled several jobs through Cross Kingdom, Dias had seen the young prince once or twice from a distance, never meeting nor being introduced directly.

_That also accounts for the strange clothing and equipment. _There were many things that common folk had no knowledge of. Nobility had odd tastes and odd whims, and the resources to fulfill either.

Dias had heard rumours about the scion's disappearance, but had paid it little mind; he cared nothing for scandalous gossip about some royal this-or-another shirking duty.

_If it were true ... _

From one side, understandably, it was a critical issue; the arranged marriage would have built the foundations for a powerful alliance between the kingdoms of Cross and Lacour. On a whole, however, all of Expel was entering a difficult time; most people had no patience for what they considered to be the petty affairs of nobles.

_Cross' resources are strained already, and having to send out a search party large enough to ensure the prince's safety while not attracting unwanted attention is … problematic enough on its own at any time, without having to worry about leaving the kingdom defenceless against roaming monsters. The palace would be very hush-hush about the entire matter, not wanting to shake the people's confidence in the royal family – nor attract unwanted attention._

Howls of laughter interrupted his thoughtflow, causing him to focus his attention back on the bandits in the room.

_Ruffians like these would be eating up this sort of information. Of course they wouldn't kill _him_; not for what they could get._

A gruff curse. "Goin' out."

"Me too."

Hoots. "Drank too much, eh?"

"Better watch where you piss!"

Through the loud exchange of insults that followed, Dias heard chairs being pushed back. He backed away from the door opening, ducking into a hidden alcove. Grunts, scraping footsteps, the squeaking of wood. The air chilled suddenly, a cold freshness slightly damping out the thick smell of the men's drinks.

_That must be the other entrance, where the horses were._ He peered out, ensuring their backs were to him; one was a heavy boar of a man, the other a scraggly tree.

Dias waited till they were gone from view. _Numbers are down._ This was a good chance. The gloved hand tightened its grip on the hilt, the blade drawing out: slowly, silently.

_Now-_

Astonished faces glanced up. "The hell-"

Instinct kept him moving, but inside was surprise.

_Only three?_

The sword came slashing down, carving strips out of the wooden table, sending glass bottles tumbling. The robbers scrambled out of the way, shouting in shock and anger. As one, three blades flew out around him; three points hovered in the air, uncertain.

A dark smile grew. Dias shook his head condescendingly as he surveyed the trio surrounding him. It was plain to see that the swords were shoddily-maintained; if they had been decent once, they were barely passable now, not against his blade. And the stances of the bandits, the way they handled their weapons, even after accounting for the drinks they probably had – pathetic. Their strength had been their numbers.

_It takes two of them to kill even a little girl._

"Dogs," he snarled, and attacked.

Caught off-guard, the bandit on his left cried out with a start, swinging blindly. One swipe and the man was disarmed; the next second, Dias' blade cut clean across his throat, littering the air with blood.

_One. _As the man toppled backwards, sliding down against the wall, the two bandits opposite struck.

Dias whirled around, sidestepping the first blow, deflecting it with ease. The second man, stabbing wildly, was also countered. This sword snapped, causing the robber to recoil, howling with pain.

The other brigand grabbed at a glass bottle with his free hand, smashing it against the wall, spilling shards and liquid onto the cavern floor. Grunting from the effort, he flung the broken bottle at the mercenary.

Dias twisted, pulled his cloak up and shielding himself from the sharp edges of glass. At the same time, he stepped up and into the next blow, anticipating the bandit's follow-up attack. His blade thrust out, a deep, rising slash across the belly and chest.

The man's shriek pierced the air. _Two._

The last bandit, still unarmed and clutching his wounded hand to his stomach, pounced on the weapon dropped by the first robber Dias had killed. With a bestial cry, he jumped up, raising it high over his head-

_Three._

The last bandit collapsed, the mercenary's sword buried in his chest.

Dias braced his boot against the dead man's side, pulling the blood-encrusted blade out of the body.

There was an exclamation behind him.

The swordsman looked up, turning to see the two brigands who had gone out earlier. They were staring at the swath of glass, blood and bodies in the room; as soon as Dias' eyes met theirs, the heavyset man cursed and backed away, out of sight of the door frame. The thinner, scrawnier bandit dashed after him.

The swordsman raced to the door. _If they get to the horses again-_

The corridor appeared empty.

_They couldn't have gotten outside that fast. _As he stalked through the passageway, he silently cursed himself for losing track of the other two. Where were they? _Damn- _

There was a roar of fury.

Dias spun, catching the fleeting flash of a dagger. His sword arm lifted immediately into a blocking position –

And there would be no impact. He caught sight of a figure behind his attacker: the wide sweep of a leg, and the bandit was yelling incoherently as he stumbled to the ground at the swordsman's feet. The yell was immediately cut short.

He had landed on his own dagger.

Effectively, the brigand had slit his own throat. The fine blade pierced the exposed flesh at an awkward angle, probably slicing diagonally into the windpipe and the jugular. A bubbly, frothing gasp of air, spittle and blood, and he was still.

_Well._

Dias looked up. It was the hostage again, standing over the robber's body, half leaning against the cavern wall, breathing heavily through the gag. His arms were still tied behind him, but his legs were unbound.

"What are you doing?" Dias demanded. "I told you to stay out of my way."

The body straightened, blue eyes glaring at him. Dias shook his head, then reached out and removed the gag.

"Well, I don't know _you_ either," the youth shot back, as soon as his mouth was free. "Would _you_ just lie there, waiting for your lumps?"

_Heh, true. _"Fair enough." Dias acknowledged. "Turn around."

"Wha- " the other man started, but the swordsman had already pushed him to face the other way, slicing off the rope and freeing his arms.

"How did you get out of your leg bindings?"

"They were already loose. I wasn't out of it when they actually tied me; I just braced my legs." The young man stuck out his tongue uncomfortably at the memory, then smiled flatly. "Thinking on my feet?"

Dias snorted at the bad pun. The other man rubbed his arms. "Anyways, thank you."

The swordsman shrugged his shoulders. "Your lucky day. I just happened to be tracking these dogs." He turned his attention back to the hallway.

"… Still, I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me. There's still one mo-"

"_Don't think you'll get away so easily!" _

The owner of the raspy snarl leapt out, a thick arm swinging around the hostage's neck, another knife blade drawing out with a sharp metal keening. "One false move and this gu- _augh!_"

Before he was able to bring the dagger close enough, the young man had ducked his head, biting down painfully on the robber's wrist. While the robber yelped, left hand closed over right fist and pushed back, elbow digging fast and hard into the fat gut. The bandit released his grip, reeling, hacking from the blow. The youth stumbled forward, quickly regaining his balance and hastening out of reach.

"_You-!"_ Outrage. Oversized hands flew to the hilt at his side.

Dias wasted no time: the hungry sword lunged, ruthless.

His blade slid effortlessly into the brigand's chest; twisting, pulling out, drawing a stream of red. A scream, and the bandit met earth, limbs sprawled out and lifeless, the unused sword clattering as it hit the ground.

After a moment's silence, an incredulous voice.

"You … you killed him ..." One hand covered the mouth in shock.

Dias pointed his blood-stained sword past the youth. "So did you."

The other man turned his head, following the blade's line to the bandit that he had tripped earlier. He gasped, finally noticing the self-impalement, the thickening, darkening fluid seeping into the ground under the corpse. He swallowed, turning away, then bent over sharply, dry heaving.

"If that's how you feel, I suggest you not look in the other room."

The other man turned to look back at him, his face a sickly pallor, drained of blood. He nodded mutely.

_Good. No further complaints. At least he understands the inevitable. _Dias wiped his sword clean with the edge of his cloak, then sheathed the blade in one smooth motion. "You might want to pick up your belongings."

Another pale nod, and the youth turned, heading back to the room where he had been held.

Dias looked down at the fallen bandit's sword.

Unlike the weapons of the others, this blade was rather high-quality. He knelt down, examining the edge, the handiwork. He turned his gaze to the dead man, then got up, prodding the body with one foot, turning it over. He leaned down again, unfastening the sword belt from the corpse's waist, sliding the sword back into its scabbard. Carrying this package, he followed where the other man had gone.

When Dias entered, the youth was sliding his arms into the coat that had been on the ground. His gloves were already on, and a red band was wrapped around his forehead, somewhat managing to keep the long bangs out of his eyes.

"Thank god," he was muttering quietly to himself, rifling through his pockets. "… didn't take … pha … g … n off safety after dad gave …o me … obviously … underdevelop … civiliz … n their hands … would've been …" He stopped suddenly.

Dias cocked his head at the prolonged silence.

"Holy. Hell," the youth gaped, and started checking frantically through his pockets again. It appeared to be an unsuccessful search; he soon gave up and began digging through the room, tearing through the debris. When this too proved fruitless, he jumped up, dashing past Dias and lunging out the doorway, about to head down the passage – but soon stopped short again, evidently recalling the mercenary's warning about the other chamber. The paling of his face confirmed that.

"What?" Dias followed him, shadowing his movements, keeping an eye out for any other robbers.

"M-my phase gun," the other man exclaimed, spinning around. Intense blue eyes turned back on him. "Where is it?"

"What are you talking abou-"

"Did you see it? Do you know where it is?" Both hands clutched at the lapels of his cloak. "My phase gun, the one I was carryin- augh, what am I saying?" He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, then lowered them, spacing them out as though measuring something. "Small, ah, metal object, about this size …"

As he spoke, his fingers flew through the air frantically, gesturing and emphasizing. "Has a ... kind of ... handle, like this, and a ... a barrel ... thing ..." He trailed off as he saw Dias' blank expression. "... No?

"... Damn it." One gloved hand dropped, clenching into a fist.

Dias shrugged. "They probably took it to an underground trader."

Silence. Then: "Are you telling me it's on _the black market!"_

"_Be quiet!"_ The swordsman clasped a gloved hand tightly over the other man's mouth, irritated. "When I tracked the bandits to this hideout, I was expecting at least eight of them, but there were only five. I don't know for certain where the rest are, so don't shout." He removed his hand.

"... Sorry," the youth finally replied, sheepish. "I didn't realize ... I never saw them all at once. I mean, I did, when they first caught me, but I wasn't able to count ..." A sigh. "Great. Just great. Quantum physics on the medieval black market ..." He began to mumble incomprehensibly again.

Dias raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar terminology. _I know Lacour has been working on some advanced Heraldric experiments, but not Cross ... What exactly is going on? Did the prince really leave because of the betrothal to Rosalia of Lacour, or does Cross have another hidden agenda? _

Out loud, he said, "They _may _have. From what I overheard, it seems the main group split up, one leaving to check the value of some items. I doubt they've let go of it that fast."

There was another sigh. "At least they didn't take the communicator." The youth rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I wonder why." He pulled out the strange device Dias had held in his own hands earlier, studying the moving symbols, pressing the pad here and there.

Dias recalled the beep, and the bandits' taunting. "One of them said something about a noise."

"The autoscan probably scared them off," the youth answered, smiling weakly, then stopped and covered his own mouth. "Or, uh, something." He hurriedly shoved the device – the 'communicator'? – back into his pocket.

_What_ is_ that?_

There was no point in asking right now. "We'd better get moving." Dias nodded in the direction of the exit. "I don't know when the others will return, or what the situation will be when they come back."

The youth nodded, and followed the swordsman, averting his eyes as they passed the corpses in the hall. Dias heard him cough, but there was no further comment.

They made their way out to the main entrance, where the horses were tied. Dias paused, giving the animals time to notice their presence to avoid startling them. Then he moved in, calmly, efficiently, checking their condition.

All of the steeds appeared well-trained, and their coats were quite clean; they had been well cared for. Dias untied the two that appeared the sturdiest and most alert: a blue-gray gelding and a dappled mare with white socks.

"Here." He handed the other man one set of reins.

"Uh ..."

"What?"

"Nothing." The youth took the reins and patted the animal on the silken muzzle. The mare whinnied in contentment. "I just haven't had much experience riding horses, that's all ..."

"Really."

"Ah ... where are we going?"

"We?" Dias didn't look up as he busied himself inspecting the straps, making sure nothing was loose. He bundled up the sword-and-scabbard he had been carrying, affixing it to the side of the saddle.

Silence was the only reply.

"You're free. The bandits are done with, for now. There's no reason for you, or me, to stick around." Dias got up and looked over his shoulder. He nodded at the mare, which had begun to chew happily on the youth's jacket collar. "Take a horse. Go where you want."

The other man hastily tugged himself away, almost stumbling as the mare released him. "Please, wait. I … I need your help." He bit his lower lip. "I don't know this area very well, and I need to find some information- "

_A-ha. _Dias faced him squarely. "If you want my help, you had better tell me what's going on."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Who you are. Why you are here. What's so important about that ... 'phase gun'. Explanations."

"Uh …" The youth frowned at the demand. "I don't know if you'd really want to know what's going on ..."

"I suppose not." Dias turned, setting one foot in the stirrup and grasping the saddle to pull himself up. "Good luck."

"Ah- Wait!"

The swordsman paused at the panic in the voice. He waited.

"I ..." Fidgeting. "I can't really tell you."

"Then I can't really help you." He started to mount again.

A hand grabbed frantically at his cloak. "No, wait!"

Dias stopped for a second time.

An exasperated sigh. "Okay, I'll tell you, but don't blame me if you don't believe me."

"Try me."

The youth hesitated, stalling. "I'm … I'm lost, and I'm trying to get back. I came from, uh, a really far away place, and, um …"

"Where is this place?"

"… Somewhere really, really far away."

"What's it called?"

"… I, ah, forget?"

Dias set his foot in the stirrup again and pulled, raising himself up and easing into the saddle. The horse shook its head as though wakened by the weight, the mane flying. It flicked its tail, scuffing eagerly at the ground with one hoof.

The youth stared down, fists clenched. Dias tugged the reins with one hand, and the blue-gray turned obediently, ready to leave.

"_Okay."_

Dias turned in his saddle at the unexpected, emphatic word. The other man's eyes were shut tightly as he raised his head, inhaling deeply. He opened his eyes.

"My name is Claude C. Kenni. I'm from a planet called Earth, which is situated in the Solar System of the Milky Way Galaxy." He pointed up at the black sky. "I was travelling aboard the spaceship _Calnu_s, which was hovering around the planet Milocinia; the communicator cut out and I lost contact. So now I'm trying to find my way back."

The young man looked up tentatively. The two stared at each other as silent moments passed.

The gelding snorted.

Dias' lip twitched. "You don't really expect people to believe that, do you?"

The man calling himself Claude threw his hands into the air and gazed up at the sky. "Apparently not."

Dias eyed the youth. "Who are you, really?"

"I already _told_ you."

"Tell me again."

"Sure thing. My name is Claude and I'm from outer space." The voice was dancing now, uncaring.

Dias tried again. "What information are you looking for?"

"Hmm, what planet is this?"

And again. "… What is this phase gun?"

"Oh, that. It's just a harmless little weapon of mass destruction that I'd really like to have back."

_I'm losing him. _Dias reoriented his questioning, changing his approach.

"Why did those bandits want you?" he pressed. "They would have killed anyone else immediately."

Claude paused, looking quite taken aback at the statement, as though it were the first time he had considered it. The ironic expression faded away. "I … I don't know."

_His story needs work, but he's putting on a good act. _"So what do you expect to do now?"

"I … I don't have anywhere to go." The youth paused, then corrected himself. "I don't _know_ whereto go. I have no idea where to start … and I don't want to risk what happened with the bandits again. But … but I have to find my way back. Somehow. And I _have_ to find that phase gun."

Is he still trying?

Sensing incredulity, Claude frowned.

The mercenary waited. The other man shrugged helplessly, palms out in the cold air.

Moments passed.

The mare nickered.

Dias looked off into the distance, then turned his head back and nodded in the mare's direction again. "Get on."

"Thank you," the young man said, gratefulness evident in his voice. "I know I sound like a maniac, but I'm serious, uh ... ah ..." He scratched his head. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Dias Flac." The swordsman wondered idly if the young man would recognize his name.

He didn't seem to. "Oh. Nice to meet you, Dias." He laughed again; it was a pleasant sound, though somewhat bitter in tone. "I guess."

Dias made no reply, but merely shifted in his seat, waiting for Claude to get on his own horse.

The youth paused for moment, looking back at where Dias had been standing when he mounted earlier. Then he turned back to the dappled mare, set one foot into the stirrup, braced himself, and pulled: a respectable imitation of the swordsman's technique. Soon he was settled comfortably in the saddle, guiding the mare to a steady stop beside Dias' steed. He turned to the older man in anticipation, attentive, watching his movements.

_A liar, or a quick study._

"There's a way station about a day's ride from here." Dias nodded towards the distant path. "We can talk later."

"Roger."

Dias raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He kicked in his heels, and the blue-gray was off. Behind him, Claude did likewise. Soon, the two horsemen were shadows drumming the earth, speeding through the dark trees.

* * *

Author's notes: This is a concept I've been mulling about in my head for a while now. The basic question was: how might things have turned out if Claude didn't land so conveniently in Arlia and met Rena? 

Perhaps my favourite thing about the concept of the Star Ocean series is the interaction between civilizations at different stages of development, which is what I really want to focus on here. Save the prologue (for setting the scene), I chose to write from Dias' POV, because I thought the story would be much more interesting this way. But but … writing Dias is haaaard and I suck at fight scenes xD; Somewhere along the line, the mood of the story and the characters became somewhat sarcastic – not "haha" sarcastic, but rather a "Life is so ironic and I'm a bitter child" sarcastic. XD;; Not sure what happened there …

Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed my experimentation. I don't quite know where it will be going myself, if anywhere. Feedback, particularly on writing style, ideas and characterization, is very much appreciated.


	3. TWO reconnaissance attempt

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**TWO**

**reconnaissance attempt**

It was a small hut, old; this was easy to tell. But it had strong foundations, and it had been built with a firm hand and a good eye. The simple room was sparsely-furnished: a small bed in one corner, a table and two chairs in the other. Worn and a little unsteady, but still welcoming to tired bodies. An old lamp sat on the table, rusty but workable, its food waiting in the corner. As a shelter for those seeking a respite from travel, the cabin served its purpose well.

Across the room, the door pushed open. A figure tumbled in, staggering, clutching feebly at the doorframe.

"_Augh …"_

Dias strode into the hut, passing Claude. He paused, then turned to watch the young man's struggle. A fleeting smirk crossed his face, and his expression grew stoic again. "I guess you really haven't ridden much."

"That's what I said," Claude answered wearily, closing the door behind him. He rested his head against the wall, eyes closed. "I don't know which was worse, the bandits or the horses."

"We made good time." Draping his cloak onto the back of one chair, the swordsman turned his attention to the oil lamp. Soon, a warm light bathed the small room in a gentle, orange-tinted glow. He glanced back at the other man. "Are you going to stand all night?

"Yes."

"Are you sure you don't want a seat?"

"Hmm, let me think. Yes."

"Sit down."

"You'll have to beat me senseless first."

"You'll be fine after a while. Keep standing and you'll make your feet sore as well."

Reluctantly, the young man made his way over to the table. He pulled the other chair out and sat down gingerly, wincing the entire time.

While Claude dealt with his discomfort, Dias gauged his attentiveness. The youth seemed fairly at ease now, and sufficiently diverted.

_Let's try._

"Well …" Dias leaned against the table. "I suppose life out here hasn't really been what you expected, has it?"

Claude shifted uncomfortably. "Ouch. I'm not really sure what I was expecting."

"It must be much harder than back home," Dias continued smoothly, watching the other man's face. "Travelling long distances, on foot or on horseback, being constantly exposed to the elements, having none of the conveniences you're used to …"

"Roughing it," the other man laughed. "Training took care of most of that, but you're right, it's different in person. Ow!"

"There must be a lot that you miss."

"Ugh; must be."

"I can't even begin to imagine, Clother. What do you miss the most?"

Claude's head lifted sharply. _"Clother?"_ His gaze met Dias' without blinking. One brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Dias leaned back, crossing his arms. Either the man was telling the truth, or he was extremely keen and was keeping up an excellent guard. Having no prior experience directly observing the prince in action, it was hard to tell. But, regardless, he would still be young and inexperienced: for all intents and purposes, ignorant to the workings of the outside world. He likely had a poor concept of the implications and potential consequences surrounding his leaving the castle.

_Alright then. Play his game._

"_His Royal Highness,_ Clother T. Cross." It came out rather sardonic, and he quickly spread his hands in apparent apology at the misidentification. "From what I heard of the bandits' conversation back at the hideout and from what I've seen myself, I thought you were the prince of Cross."

"… Cross?"

"The kingdom ruling this continent. Have you heard of the disturbance at the castle?"

The other man shook his head. "How could I?"

Dias' next words were chosen carefully; he didn't want to antagonize the prince more than necessary. "Recently, the prince disappeared. The reason is unknown, unsurprisingly. There are theories, but the entire matter has been kept under wraps by the palace, in order to keep up the royal family's appearances."

An eye-roll. "Isn't it always like that."

Red eyes narrowed, picking up on the response. "Regardless, it's well-known in underground quarters. They're good at ferreting out that sort of news. There are many who would be more than willing to take advantage of the situation." The fingers on one hand tapped the table nonchalantly. "You bear a very striking resemblance to Prince Clother, from all descriptions, and the bandits from earlier were hoping to ransom you to the Kingdom of Cross. Considering the monsters currently plaguing all of Expel, the timing couldn't have been worse."

He paused, in speech and in motion. The younger man had lain his head down on the table, shoulders slumping. Dias tilted his head, awaiting an expression of astonishment or dismay at learning what reckless actions cause.

Instead, the previous finger-tapping was replaced by an odd rattling.

It was several seconds before Dias realized the rattling noise was the table, shaking from silent laughter. He quickly took off his gloves, pressing them down around the base of the oil lamp in case it toppled over.

Claude raised his head, elbows dropping against the table, right hand clenched into a fist against his mouth. His upper body was twitching as he tried hard to keep it down. He inhaled shakily, finally managing to catch his breath.

"Ex- excuse me, I'm sorry," he wheezed, wincing but unable to leash the mirth, left hand waving away from his face. "But … that's, that's absolutely _hilarious …!_" With that, he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter. "It sounds like a, a badly-plotted B-movie or a retarded tabloid heading-" The young man stretched his arms in front of him, palms out, gesturing theatrically: "_'Spaceman from Space: _Alien Doppelgangers-'" He continued to convulse.

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. This was nowhere near the reaction he had been expecting.

"_Ha ha ha_, ow, pain-"

"… Are you done?" Dias finally asked.

"Oh, man …" Claude wiped at his eyes, settling back down. "I'm really, really sorry." He ran his fingers through his hair. "You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, and the entire situation is very serious for Cross. But … trust me, from over here, you'd see how ridiculous the whole thing sounds."

"I would assume," Dias replied blandly, letting go of the lamp. From what he'd observed thus far, based on reactions alone, this man was not Clother.

The possibility could not be entirely eliminated, but for the most part ... he was either telling the truth, or he was a nutcase.

_Who is this man who calls himself Claude?_

An ironic smile. "Are you trying to guilt-trip me?" Claude shook his head. "Trust me, I am not your Prince Clother." Both hands gripped the table edge and he leaned forward, gaze direct and unwavering. "The last thing I need to do is waltz into a castle impersonating royalty and have the real deal turn up – or worse, get fried by the Galactic Federation when they get here while I'm reclining on the throne." His lip twitched. "Which would be damn funny, though." He started giggling again, lost in some picture only he was seeing.

_He was either telling the truth, or he was a nutcase. _

The swordsman propped his head up in thought with his left hand, fingers tucked in. It was difficult to tell, Dias acknowledged.

Claude rubbed at his eyes with both hands. "Eh, believe me or not, whatever. I'm tired." He stifled a yawn. "There's no real use arguing about it tonight, is there?"

_Point. _"No."

"Then let's turn in." The young man stretched, then looked around, realizing there was only one bed. "Ah, Dias- "

The mercenary glanced over, acknowledging the meagre furnishings. "You take it. I'll guard the door."

"But- "

"You're more tired than I am."

"Still- " The other man frowned, the inequality clearly not sitting well with him.

Among other things. "We're going to be riding again tomorrow."

"Um," Claude reconsidered. He rubbed the back of his neck. "… Thanks."

He got up, grimacing again, and moved to the edge of the bed, resulting in another wince. He removed his headband and jacket, then slid off his shoes, letting the articles pile on the floor as he rolled over. Grabbing the corner of the sheet with one hand, he looked back at the swordsman.

"Good night."

"Hm." Dias replied absently. The other man settled down into the bed, pulling the covers over himself and letting out another "ow" before finally getting into a tolerable position. Despite his aches, he was soon fitfully asleep, lost in dreams.

Dias watched the dozing form, hands clasped pensively under his chin.

He wasn't quite sure _what_ to think, now that he'd the opportunity to observe 'Claude' a bit more. The young man seemed to have undergone some form of military training; his posture, his body language when reacting, indicated a degree of formal discipline, and not the style one would expect of the prince.

_But it's not consistent. He seems to switch randomly to something more casual._

And during the skirmish back at the hideout, the man demonstrated he was no light-weight when it came to a tight situation; he displayed good reflexes and a considerable amount of fighting ability, in spite of the handicap.

_But there was his revulsion at the bandits' deaths._

Well, training and real-world experience were not always mutually inclusive. And he could have been faking it.

_A body double for the prince, perhaps? _That would help to explain his relative proficiency and his physical appearance. But then again, he had clearly been telling the truth when he said he had little experience with horseback riding – which would have been an imperative skill.

_But he could be faking it, again. _

But why carry on a charade in such a manner? And his strange dialect, the unfamiliar vocabulary …

_And what was the story with the phase gun?_

_Does it even exist?_

Dias rubbed his temples. _Go with nutcase for now, and think about it in the morning._

He turned the wick down, blowing at the flame, allowing the oil lamp to die out. Getting up, he lifted the chair out from behind the table for easy maneuvering, facing the door, and settled down to sleep.

…

A muffled thud.

A narrow slit of red.

A gloved hand tightened its grip around the already-unsheathed blade. Dias waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The first thing he noticed was that the sheets on the bed were crumpled. The bed was empty.

The second thing he noticed was that Claude was at the door, the communicator clutched tightly in his hand. Dias was about to get up and stop him, when he realized that the other man wasn't wearing his coat.

_He's not trying to run away._

Claude paused, head turned to one side, as though considering something. Dias closed his eyes again, pretending to be asleep. After a moment's silence, he heard the door squeak lightly, then stop. The mercenary kept his eyes shut, remaining motionless. Finally, the door squeaked again,

Dias let several more minutes pass before rising, going to the door. Slowly, he turned the knob, pulling it open just a crack. He paused, then pulled it open more, leaning out, searching the starlit area.

Claude was standing by the water pump where the horses were tethered, his back to the building. One arm was slightly outstretched, the brightly-glowing communicator in hand. He was gazing up at the sky, up at the stars, as though scanning them for … for what, Dias couldn't imagine.

"… _service number …"_

An unfamiliar, monotone voice emanated from the device, startling the mercenary into a heightened awareness. He narrowed his eyes, straining to hear-

"… _ocation un … own … Initiating … manual … contact … ayday …"_

The young man brought the device close to his face. "Ens … Kenni … _Calnus_," he said. The communicator let out a melodic sequence of beeps. Finally, the mechanical voice spoke again.

"… _transmiss …n … failed …"_

The wind chilled, changing direction, rustling the crisp leaves, whistling towards the way station. "Out of range," he could hear Claude whisper, disappointment clouding the voice. The outline of the shoulders slumped.

Silently, the swordsman withdrew, back into the hut.

…

In the morning, Claude was already outside, brushing the mare's mane and coat while both she and the gelding busied themselves at the trough, tails swinging and swatting lackadaisically at random insects. Both horses were already saddled.

_Efficient. _Dias made his way down the steps, the creaking of the wood causing the youth to turn his head. "Did you sleep well?"

Claude returned his attention to the mare. "Yeah."

"No disturbances?"

"Nope. You?"

"No."

The dappled mare suddenly backed up, hindquarters twitching at some itch or irritation.

"Whoa, there, Windsocks," Claude muttered, sidling away to avoid being stepped on. The mare cocked her head at him, blinking blankly; one ear flicked, ousting a fly from its perch. Satisfied, she dipped her head back into the trough and resumed drinking.

Dias crossed his arms. "Windsocks?" There was a hint of mild amusement. "You named the horse?"

The youth scratched his neck, shrugging in reply. "Yeah."

"Hm."

Claude reflected on the disinterested response, then turned away. "I named yours too."

The swordsman said nothing. The horses continued to drink, and Claude continued working, moving over to the blue-gray.

Finally, harmless curiosity won out. "What?"

"'_Cynic'."_

Dias snorted at the straight-faced answer – as 'Cynic' did the same. Claude laughed, and patted the gelding on the nose. He turned back to look at the older man, then gestured at the horses' backs. "Ah, can you check?"

_What- oh. _Dias pushed gently at the mare's shoulder. She shifted pleasantly, allowing him to bend down and inspect the saddle job. "This strap is a bit loose," he pointed out. "That one is too tight." He began to fix it.

Claude watched him quietly, then moved to the other side of the water trough, kneeling down and adjusting the blue-gray's saddle accordingly. When he was done, Dias examined it as well, tugging at the straps.

He got up. "It's fine." The other man nodded.

_Picked it up pretty quickly – or so it seems._

"Here." Dias shoved a package at the youth.

"What …?"

"It's a sword." The tone was dry, mildly sarcastic. "Perhaps you've seen one before."

The other man hefted the scabbard. He turned it over, hand closing around the hilt and sliding the blade out just a little, inspecting it. "Wait, is this from-"

"Didn't think he needed it anymore."

Claude's face turned slightly queasy again, but he made no comment. He reluctantly wrapped the sword belt around his waist, adjusting the position of the scabbard, tightening it at the buckle.

"Draw it."

"… What?"

"Draw your blade."

The young man looked quizzically at him, then grasped the hilt of the weapon and unsheathed it; wobbling a little at the unexpected shift, he held it out in front of him, two-handed.

"Swing."

Claude complied.

_Rough around the edges, but …_ "Have you ever used one?"

The other man nodded. "Yeah, but Beginner's Melee Weaponry in Basic Combat Arts only concentrates on form-" He paused. "Uh, I'm not used to real swords. I mean, the weight."

"Start learning." Dias walked off towards the water pump. After refilling his canteen, he took the gelding's reins in hand, drawing it away from the trough before mounting. Opposite, Claude sheathed his sword. The youth frowned slightly at Windsocks' saddle before following suit.

The way back to the main road was a quiet one; the stillness was broken only by the warbling of birds, the crackling of twigs and dried leaves on the side paths.

Finally, Claude spoke.

"Where are we going?"

There was no point in hiding it; if he were the prince, or anyone associated with the royal family, he would soon recognize the scenery and the route. "Cross Castle."

One set of hoofbeats halted.

"You still think I'm the prince." Dismay was evident in his voice.

Dias pulled the gelding to a stop and turned to look at the other man. "Perhaps. Regardless, if your story is true, it's in your best interest to go to Cross and clear the matter up before anything else happens. Otherwise, you'll be hounded clear across the continent once they catch wind of you."

"Oh." Claude blinked. "I didn't think of that."

"If you wanted to go chasing after the phase gun, forget it for now and get rid of this obstacle first. Who knows, the King may know something that could be of use to you."

"R-right." The youth paused. "But … what if they think I'm the prince, too?"

A shrug. "Then you can figure something out."

"Great."

"You can go elsewhere, if you like."

A sigh. "No, you're right. It's best to go to Cross and get it out of the way."

_A point in his favour. _Through this, and the events of the previous night, Dias found himself beginning to believe.

The other man gazed out at the horizon, past the sea of trees swaying over their path. His lip twitched. Right arm swept out in an exaggerated motion, pointing straight ahead. "Take me to your leader, heh!" Windsocks neighed, breaking into a light trot and passing Cynic, who had started to forage in the greenery.

Dias shook his head and nudged the blue-gray after the dappled mare. At the very least, he was beginning to believe that _Claude_ believed his crazy little story.

_Either way, I'll find out once we get to Cross._


	4. THREE tellatale

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**THREE**

**tell-a-tale**

"_REPENT! REPENT, FOR THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH!" _

Ragged, stained white whipping about in disarray, long hair and robes flying. Withered hands clatter metal against metal, beating makeshift instruments with great passion. Small brown birds fled for the trees, snowing tufts of random, feathery wisps in their wake. "Do you want salvation?" the man continued to bellow. A bony finger impaled the air with each escalating syllable. "_Repent!_ Only then can you be saved!"

"As prophesized in the holy teachings of Tria!" A second voice rose, quickly gaining intensity. "The Sorcery Globe signalled the birth of demons! This is our penance- our punishment for displeasing the gods!"

"_Repent!"_ cried a third man, thickly bearded and wild-eyed. As he spoke, he lunged out suddenly, grabbing at the reins of the dappled mare striding by; her rider cursed mildly in surprise. Windsocks snorted in alarm, tossing her head and stumbling backwards while Claude struggled to regain control.

"_Atone for your sins and you will be saved by the Warrior!" _

This proclamation was answered by a loud equine grunt. A third form shoved its way into the skirmish, forcing the interloper backwards to avoid being crushed. The gelding rocked his head, huffing in the man's face as the latter danced around to stand in front of the pair of riders and their mounts, pale fingers still clinging stubbornly to the reins. "No man can go forward," the preacher hollered, vigorously shaking his fistful of leather. "No, not until he opens his eyes to the truth!"

Dias sighed, a sharp, low expression of exasperation. As if he didn't already have enough on his mind. He drew his sword, tilting and running the blade against the scabbard's metal-capped mouth to ensure an acute keening as the weapon was released.

Eyes widened as the blade twirled slightly in the air, catching the sunlight impressively with its honed edge. Hovering at a position just so, it sent a message even a madman would have no trouble understanding. A pause: and then it swung in a wide, showy arc, giving the target time to decide how much his limbs were worth.

At the last second, the man released his grip with a shrill yelp and jumped back, losing his balance and landing heavily on his backside.

Satisfied, Dias sheathed his sword.

"Heretics!" the man shrieked, but didn't dare to close the distance again. _"Heathens!_ This is the only road to salvation!"

"Thanks for the words of wisdom," Dias replied. "Have a nice day." The preacher scrambled out of the way as the swordsman nudged the recently-christened Cynic forward, Claude and Windsocks following closely behind.

"What was _that?"_ Claude grumbled, shifting miserably in his saddle.

"Self-styled tramp prophets," Dias answered calmly. "Ignore them."

Claude looked over his shoulder at the men, who had now turned their attention onto other hapless passers-by. The small group was relentless in their harangue. "A little hard when they're being so enthusiastic."

"They have gotten noisier recently," Dias conceded. "There's a lot of motivation for them these days."

"Like what?"

The swordsman paused at the question, and not only because of the odd colloquial speech. _I'd expect even the most ignorant, sequestered noble to be aware of it. Tria only knows they made enough noise when news first broke. This charade is getting out of hand._

And yet, the way Claude said it, _like what, _as though he honestly had no idea what was going on … "You really don't know?"

"Of course I don't!" Claude frowned, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory. "Wait- back at the way station, you said something about things plaguing Expel. Does it have to do with the Sorcery Globe and demons they were raving about?"

"It was …" The mercenary considered. "… about three months ago. The astronomers who first noticed it said it was a falling star."

"A meteorite?"

"A what?"

"That's- just what we call it back home," Claude replied. "Was that the Sorcery Globe?"

Dias confirmed it with a slight nod. "The stone of sorcery. That's what people call it now. Whatever its nature, it was something massive that struck the continent of El with incredible force. It was visible from as far away as Arlia; the blaze was that enormous. Since it arrived, there have been disasters occurring all over the world. Earthquakes, volcano eruptions … wild animals transforming into monsters that attack without provocation."

"A meteorite did all _that?_" Claude exclaimed incredulously, clearly forgetting whatever qualms he had about using the term.

"Supposedly." An eye roll expressed his own thoughts about the matter. "I really doubt all of the incidents are related to the Sorcery Globe. The monsters, on the other hand, are harder to explain."

"I wonder." Claude rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Sounds kind of like a fallout …" His voice quieted. "Maybe it's not really a meteorite; maybe it's -"

"What?"

"-ah, just thinking," he answered, a little too hastily. "Uh, so, what about this Warrior?"

Dias let it slide, for now. "The Warrior of Light. A stupid fairy tale."

Claude raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a pretty dangerous fairy tale, if all the fans are like that." He gestured behind them.

"It's in the books of Tria," the mercenary acknowledged. "The so-called _'saviour'_ of Expel." He accented the word to emphasize his disdain. "The fanatics would believe."

_Two little girls, both blue of hair, one long, one cropped shorter._

_One in front of him,_

_one behind._

_They look back at her, smiling._

_Are you coming to church today?_

_It's your favourite sermon, Rena ...!_

"-granted," he amended reluctantly, "Not just fanatics. And people in general have become more devout. Which," he felt the urge to add, "isn't surprising. Praying is an easy, safe thing to do."

"That's pretty understandable, considering what's been going on," Claude nodded. "People always need hope."

"Getting sentimental now, are we?"

"So let me get this straight so far," the youth continued, ignoring the jibe. "Tria is, um, a prophet - no, God? And there's an ancient legend about a Sorcery Globe that brings destruction to ... Expel, and a Warrior of Light who will save it."

"Right." Dias had to snicker at the hint of poetic phrasing. "Now you're less of a little heathen."

Claude snapped the rein buckles loudly. "Would you stop being so goddamned surly?" he snarled. "I'm just trying to show some sympathy and understanding."

The swordsman smirked. "It's a little hard to take it seriously when you're asking about a children's bedtime story."

"Well, I don't believe in so-called prophecies either," Claude shot back, "But I don't know about it, and I think it's weird that things are supposedly coming to life, and I'd like to hear it. Okay? So humour me."

"Fine."

"And not some sarcastic interpretation," he snapped, just as Dias opened his mouth.

Red eyes glared at blue ones, and in the ensuing silence Cynic shook his mane and snapped at a passing insect. Windsocks nickered worriedly.

_Tell me the story! she cries, her child's voice high and clear._

_They feign ignorance. What? What are you talking about? _

_You know! Tiny feet stamp in impatience. The story of the Warrior!_

_They laugh indulgently. Again? How many times have you already heard it? Are you sure it's not too many?_

_Please? Please?_

_Oh, alright …_

"What a demanding child," Dias finally muttered. He paused; it had been a long time since he'd heard the original; he'd have to paraphrase it as best as he could remember.

"... When … the land of Expel is in danger," he began haltingly, feeling indescribably self-conscious and silly, "a Warrior from another world will appear, dressed in … alien raiments, and bearing a Sword of L-"

"_Alien raiments!"_

"Fancy way of saying strange clothes," Dias snapped, annoyed at the interruption. "That's the exact wording." Thinking back now, he'd always thought the pretentious phrase ridiculous, even as a child; that must have been why he remembered the particular term. He heard a stifled snicker, and glanced over. "What?"

"I know, I know," Claude took his hand away from his mouth, waggling it in the air like a schoolchild, then tugging at his coat. "Kinda like me," he said, smiling.

_Oh. His mad story. Well, he is dressed oddly, I'll give him that._ The swordsman looked Claude up and down with a critical eye, and shrugged. "If that's the case," he finally responded, "then Expel is doomed."

The youth laughed. "Funny, that's exactly what I was thinking. Guess those guys really were prophets!"

The mercenary snorted. _And you were talking about sarcasm._

Claude hiccuped suddenly, and Windsocks' pace slowed, lagging behind Dias' mount. The reason for the youth's nervousness was clear: the pair of guards posted at the entrance. Dias shook his head furtively; there was little reason to worry. It didn't really matter, one way or the other; the soldiers were hardly likely to arrest them as they headed _into_ the city, and even if they did, it would work in their favour – an audience with the King would be guaranteed. In any case, most of these exterior guards were pulled from common ranks, and rarely interacted with nobility.

As they neared, one guard gestured to the other, who nodded in agreement. "If it isn't Dias Flac," he called in greeting. The man seemed familiar, in that vague, generic face-in-the-crowd sort of way, and Dias had no idea who he was. Nor did he particularly care. He'd seen too many soldiers around Cross to be bothered to keep track of names.

"So the, ah, great swordsman is also here to join the survey team to El?" The tone was not mocking, merely hesitant and observational.

_Survey team? _The mercenary frowned slightly, recalling events from months ago. _I thought one had already been dispatched ... Did it not return? _He shrugged, giving no further hint to his thoughts. "Perhaps."

The guard cleared his throat. "The King will be mighty pleased to see you, if you are."

"_We _are." Dias tilted his head towards his companion. The latter raised his head, opening his mouth in protest, then just as quickly closing it.

The man eyed Claude, twisting his mouth slightly and squinting his eyes as he considered the youth's outlandish garments. He looked as though he wanted to comment, then decided against it. "Wonderful," the guard finally said, somewhat less than approvingly, but showing no sign that he considered anything amiss. "The more the merrier ... ah, so to speak. Not that the reason for the gathering is, er, a merry one." He stopped, frazzled, then waved them on with one gloved hand. "Good day!"

Claude exhaled when they had passed. "How did you know he wouldn't do anything?"

"Most commoners don't have a clue what the prince looks like," Dias answered. "Some of these guards _might_ have seen him, once or twice, from a distance. The royal wedding would have been one of his few public appearances."

"Oh." Claude mulled over the discourse, then looked up, remembering something. "He called you a great swordsman and recognized you by name and face. You must be quite well-known on Expel."

Dias shrugged.

"I guess I was really lucky you were the one I ran into. Thanks."

The mercenary said nothing. Claude didn't press on.

Dias rubbed his head, grateful for the respite from bizarre questions and incomprehensible comments. It had been a while since he had travelled for such a lengthy period of time with another person. And particularly never with someone so … _odd_. Suffice to say he had found it a difficult thing to get used to. In the past few days he had found himself wondering, numerous times, why he had bothered.

But in this case, the answer always came easily enough: he hated leaving things undone. He hated mysteries.

_And this one will end at Cross Castle._

Or so he hoped.

Actually, as much as he would rather not admit it, it hadn't been a completely intolerable experience. It certainly wasn't boring, and there had been many entertaining moments. In fact-

_"Wh-whoa!"_

Dias frowned at the outburst, turning in his saddle to glance behind him.

Claude was still secure on Windsocks' back, and the mare was still following obediently, albeit in a much more leisurely fashion. They had just gone through the inner wall, passing directly beneath the main guard towers, and the youth was straining and craning his neck towards the sky. He was staring so intently that the swordsman thought he was going to slow-twist his head off.

"Wow ..." The voice was hushed with quiet awe. "This is _amazing ...!"_

Dias followed the younger man's line of sight to Cross Castle.

Banners fluttered high in the turrets, rippling and billowing through the air, bold and breathing ribbons dancing against a vivid sky. The white stone in the distance caught much of the sun's light, giving the structure a hard, bright quality – a brilliant contrast to the intense colours and sounds of the city around them.

And, as the guard had mentioned, there were indeed many swords-for-hire loitering about. Their levels of skill would vary greatly, Dias knew; he suspected the new survey team would hardly be able to succeed if the previous one had failed.

He slowed Cynic's pace, waiting for Claude to finish his gushing. He'd been to Cross many times in his life, and elsewhere as well, and few things were anything remarkable anymore. The capital of Lacour was larger in almost every respect, and the suffocating swarms of adventurers during the Tournament of Arms season far outstripped the numbers present here today. And even as a child, he had heard stories that Eluria on El eclipsed both cities. When he'd finally made the trip years ago, it hadn't disappointed.

_Though who could say what Eluria looks like now that the Sorcery Globe has fallen._

Still, Cross _was _the most modern city on this continent, as befitting its status as the capital of the kingdom. He had long grown familiar with the view, but he could see how it might take one's breath away. It was fairly impressive, Dias had to admit.

_If your experience is limited._

Then he noticed Claude wasn't only staring at the castle ramparts and the mercenaries. He was watching the crowds of city folk bustling through the streets, following the clouds of pigeons flying in and out from the old clock tower in the square. He was eyeing the roofs of simple houses, gazing down at the cobbled streets themselves, even examining the alleyways as the horses clip clopped by.

_Just full of surprises, isn't he? _From dialect, appearance, responses, and other hints of bearing, Dias had pegged the young man as a fairly worldly personality – at least, possessing of a certain degree of sophistication in lifestyle – or training - beyond that of an average person. But here the boy was, gawking away, gawking at _everything, _even the garbage, like a visitor from some extremely backwater village. 

"Look at that!" Claude pointed with glee, as though he'd never seen such things in his life. "The details are incredible," he enthused. "It's better than any medieval holograph!"

Dias weighed his options against the gibberish again, and decided that his "what" interjections in the past had been too jarring. "Really," he said, keeping his tone flatly conversational.

"Yeah," the young man agreed happily. "I feel like I'm in one of those fantasy RPGs, you know," he continued, turning to converse with his companion, "like, uhhhhhhhhhhh ..." His expression dimmed as he saw Dias' face, and he trailed off into stammers and incoherent mumbling.

"Like?"

Claude hemmed and hawed. "Uh, nothing in particular. Don't let it bother you."

"Not at all," Dias replied, allowing the mental pendulum to swing back to _yes, definitely a nutcase._

Inside the courtyard, the swordsman dismounted. He wondered idly if he could get the horses to the common stables without running into an attendant, particularly an overly excitable or emotional one. People were annoying to deal with.

"Say …" Claude frowned suddenly. "How long will it take to see the King? I mean, he wouldn't be seeing people out of nowhere every day, would he …?"

Dias absently dusted a pigeon feather off of Cynic's mane. "There's a reception for people requesting an audience. Generally, those with introductions will be given the first openings." The older man shrugged. "But considering the circumstances, I wouldn't wager long. The real challenge will be seeing him before anyone sends rumours flying out of control."

"Eh …" The other man made a face. "I forgot about that. Damn it." He leaned over to dismount, then halted in mid-motion. He looked warily down at Dias, who was waiting patiently beside the blue-gray gelding. "Um … "

"What now?"

"Is there a, uh, reward for the prince?"

Dias resisted the urge to laugh out loud, keeping a neutral expression. "What, having second thoughts about being escorted to the castle?"

Claude maintained his gaze, but said nothing.

The swordsman relented. "No, there isn't. That would be admitting that the prince is missing."

"Oh, that's right," Claude said, relief evident in his face and inflection. "They're keeping it quiet and everything." He began to dismount again.

Dias turned his face away. "Though if I were to tell them I'd found the prince, I'm sure there _would_ be a reward ..."

The other man jerked upright. "Wait, _what?"_

"Heh, calm down." He turned back to reveal a smirk. "Haven't you ever heard of cause and effect?"

The youth's face flushed as he realized the prank. "Yeah?" Claude glowered. "Well- I bet _you've_ never heard of Newton's Third Law of Motion!"

The warrior blinked at the retort, unable to make connections between the alien term and anything he had ever known. "… Huh?" he finally said, baffled.

"Forget it." Claude shifted, leaning to dismount from the side opposite Dias. "Hold your horses; this might take a while."

_Another point for the nutcase argument. _The mercenary sighed inwardly. All this time and he still hadn't gotten really anywhere. He couldn't seem to trip up the young man in anything inconsistent with his peculiar story; he always ended up feeling like a headless chicken running around in circles. Logically, the options were limited.

_Either he's Clother, or he's crazy, or he's Clother and he's crazy._ Or he was somehow telling the truth, but Dias was growing rather tired of having to think about the entire thing.

He turned his focus back on the present situation. Claude was, indeed, taking his time. "Are you sure you don't want any help?" the mercenary inquired, his voice cloying with politeness.

"_I'm working on it." _

"Alright then."

"Master Flac!" Dias glanced up to see a servant waving in recognition, hurrying over to them. "What business brings you to Cross Cast-" The man broke off, eyes widening as he noticed the swordsman's companion. He bowed instinctively, nearly tumbling over in his haste. "_Your Highness!"_ he exclaimed, his voice a very loud whisper. "It is truly a miracle!"

"Not-" Dias started.

"_Praise be to Tria! _His Majesty will be overjoyed! I'll deliver the message right away!" The attendant dashed off.

"-quite," the mercenary finished, irritated.

"Hurray," said Claude without a trace of enthusiasm, as he finally heaved himself off of Windsocks and staggered away.

* * *

Author's Notes: Newton's Third Law_ – "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."_

The term meteorite is actually used by the Expellians in-game, but I dislike it because it strikes me as too modern a term. I know it was first used in the 1800s, but I'm treating Expel as similar in development to SO3's Elicoor II, which was described as being equivalent to 17th century Earth. It's a minor thing, but what can I say, I'm obsessive :P

Sorry about all the talking in this chapter; hope it wasn't too boring. My attempt at building some sort of plot and foreshadowing and blahblahblah. Argh, this stupid thing took so long for several reasons: 1) Tons of school/volunteer work, 2) more inspiration for scenes that take place in the far future than for this chapter, and 3) the embarrassment of rereading my own work (to help me remember what I was doing - when I think about and look at what I'm trying to do, it seems really pathetic XD). But writing the street evangelists was rather fun – I see these sorts of people all the time downtown. Many thanks to my sis Shioru/Kotoshin and my friend Luna for their feedback and input as well as Elysian Stars and Orangewishes for helping me get motivated to dig this chapter out again.

I was really surprised that people are enjoying this and seem to like my ideas, and I appreciate beyond imagining all of you who took the time to comment. Thank you so much, it means a lot to me! I know things are moving really slowly, but with time and luck my pacing should (hopefully) improve ...


	5. FOUR the reception

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**FOUR**

**the reception**

Arms crossed and body shaded from the sun by the pillar he was leaning against, Dias shook his head. He hated seeing shoddy anything. He watched from the balcony alcove as the woman sneaked her way through the castle grounds – although in his opinion, sneaking was a more-than generous term to apply to this situation. To her credit, she moved quite fast in spite of her ridiculous performance. He had seen her approaching this section from several angles already; she was evidently looking for a way to get to the throne room.

_Probably another treasure hunter begging for passports, _Dias thought. They were always crowding the audience bookings.

Now she was winding her way directly below them, the tip of her hat bouncing along and hiding most of her platinum hair at this viewpoint. Her short cloak billowed flashily, trailing the air behind her as she tiptoed about the walkway with an exaggerated sense of secretiveness. Clearly she was under the deluded impression no one could see her.

_Cross must really be strapped for soldiers if the castle security is becoming this lax._

He glanced over his shoulder at his companion, who had been pacing about in circles earlier but was now apparently deep in thought, arms folded, head bowed and staring at the embroidered rugs on the floor. A flurry of activity on the part of several of the castle staff had enabled them to bypass the standard bookings easily; this had, of course, done nothing to alleviate Claude's apprehension. At present, they were waiting directly outside the hall leading to the throne room.

To be quite honest, Dias was surprised they were waiting at all. _What other issue could take priority for the king's immediate attention?_

Claude suddenly looked up and turned to the older man. "Ah, Dias, what are you going to say?"

Dias raised an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to say something?"

"You're not telling the king about the bandits and the confusion with the prince?"

"I brought you here. You can tell your own story."

Dismay crossed the youth's face briefly, but then he merely sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Any chance for some pointers on your protocol for meeting royalty?"

"As long as you don't insult his family or declare war on Cross, you should be fine," Dias offered helpfully. He looked back out at the level below. The woman was already making her fifth go around the area. He shook his head again.

"Gee, I sure hope I don't do any of those things," Claude muttered.

Dias turned his attention back and smirked. "Worried about getting married off?"

"Har har," Claude replied, but tension remained in his voice.

Light footsteps and the awareness of new presences drew both men's attention back to the expansive hall. A trio of attendants, robes long and flowing, halted before them. All three bowed respectfully at the same time.

The center figure stepped forward. "My apologies for the interruption," he said. "And the wait. His Royal Majesty, King Roderick of Cross, will see you now." Half-turning, he gestured. "Please come this way."

While Claude followed, Dias trailed behind for a brief moment. He placed a hand on the shoulder of the last attendant. "You might want to do something about that," he said, pointing out towards the balcony view. Without waiting to see the servant's reaction, he turned and left.

--

They were ushered into the throne room, Claude gulping at the grandeur of the audience chamber while Dias appraised the decor with a sweeping glance of boredom. As a pair of attendants unobtrusively shut the doors behind them, the younger man frowned, eyeing their actions nervously.

"Dias Flac of Arlia Village," the herald said with a little too much enthusiasm as they approached. "And His Royal Highness, _Clother T. Cross!"_

"Mercy of Tria," exclaimed the king, half-rising from his throne. The cluster of counsellors to his right gasped, and waves of surprised murmurs circulated around the audience chamber.

"Noooo," Claude mumbled at a volume only Dias could hear. Dias bowed, noting that the other man glanced quickly at him before doing the same.

"You may now approach the throne," the herald announced.

"Step up," the swordsman said quietly, before wondering why he was playing into the scenario of Claude's claimed ignorance. The king's eyes widened as they approached, and Dias resisted the urge to nod discreetly as a signal for the other man to proceed. _Here we go,_ he thought, half-expecting either a row to ensue, or for the youth to fall apart and start babbling all over the place.

Claude stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Uh," he began eloquently. "I'm not your son. I mean, I'm not who you think I am – Your Majesty." For a split-second he seemed confused, then appeared to mentally gather himself together. "My name is Claude Kenni."

Dias paused. After the initial, uncertain stutter, his tone had become controlled and factual; it reminded the mercenary of a soldier making a scouting report.

"I was captured by a group of bandits in the forest about … three days' ride from here," Claude continued. "Apparently they were under the belief that I was the Prince of Cross and planned on ransoming me."

The sovereign's expression was thoughtful as he watched the speaker intently.

"Dias was the one who rescued me. He recommended I come to Cross to clear up any confusion there may be regarding my identity." Claude paused. "If I may, all I'd like to request is that I be allowed to travel without hassle; I'm not really looking to get involved in anything if I can help it."

He took a breath after he finished, and waited.

The king stroked his beard.

"Granted," he said.

Dias raised an eyebrow. This was a surprise.

"If you don't believe me, maybe there's some way I could-" Claude started, then stopped. "What?"

"We give you permission to leave Cross and explore this continent freely without disruption from our soldiers. Provided no laws of this domain are broken, of course."

Claude gaped. "R-really?"

"Certainly. We understand."

Incredulity still lay in his voice. "… You do?"

"We do."

Claude looked doubtful. "Are you sure-"

Dias glowered at him. "Are you trying to talk them into keeping you?"

King Roderick laughed. "You do bear a strong - a _very _strong - resemblence to Clother; the similarity is quite startling. We are not surprised the bandits, and many of the castle staff, were fooled." Out of the corner of his eye, Dias could see a number of the attendants nodding. "However, there are things, small things, that are unalike: manner of bearing, for one; manner of speech, for another; other physical traits … these are evident once one has had the opportunity to observe for moments longer than some of the more easily excitable members of our court have allowed themselves."

Roderick smiled; sheepish expressions could be seen here and there around them. "To give an obvious example," the monarch acknowledged, "your eyes are blue. Clother's are green."

Dias blinked. He hadn't noticed before, either. Then again, he had never had the opportunity – nor the reason – to do so, close up.

Claude frowned. "That's it?" There was an undertone of skepticism. "I guess …" he scratched his head. "Well, Your Majesty, I've never … had the fortune of meeting Prince Clother, so I wouldn't know, but that seems … a bit too easy. You're willing to believe me on that alone?"

"You wish for us to disbelieve you?" The king laughed again, pleasantly. "Certainly, the Heraldric arts can create whole illusions; to Crest sorcery, the colour of an eye is nothing. But, were you really Clother, we doubt you would waste your time to disguise only that. And the very fact you chose to come forward is in your favour." He leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. "Then again, were you Clother, perhaps your plan is to play the obvious and hide in plain sight.

"Although," he rubbed at his chin, "plain sight is a bit of an understatement, in your current attire ..."

"Um," said Claude, looking down at himself as though seeing his clothing for the first time.

"In any case, were you the Prince, we would at least be comforted in knowing where you are. We trust Dias Flac."

Claude sighed with relief. "Thank god," he said. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was really worried, especially after Dias filled me in on the situation."

The king nodded, and in that one motion he seemed to age perceptibly. "It is indeed … awkward."

"So the Prince is officially 'resting in the provinces'," Dias said, ignoring the glares and scowls various counsellors shot his way.

"… Yes. He chose a most opportune time." Roderick sighed. "It is all we can do to keep it up at the moment. The Princess Rosalia has been staying in the castle for over a fortnight already; she is no fool. Our patience and composure are wearing thin …" The king sighed again. "It is all a delicate but most necessary charade."

He paused, then looked up and gazed at the youth in silence. Claude shifted, leaning on one foot and then the other, discomfited. Finally, the king spoke again.

"Young Claude, we don't suppose you would be willing to stand in for Clother?"

The individual in question stared blankly. "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty?"

Dias knew the king well enough, and considered his options without concern. _I could use a little entertainment today,_ he decided, and remained silent.

"It would be temporary, of course; only until we find our son. And naturally, we cannot tell any outsiders about the matter, including the Kingdom of Lacour."

"Uh …" Claude paled. "With all due respect, Your Majesty …"

"It would be a most grand and clever solution, wouldn't you say?"

"Ah, well, I-" Flustered, the young man glanced anxiously at Dias. The latter made no response and turned his head to the tapestry-draped walls, suddenly developing a keen interest in detailed knotwork, waiting for it to play out.

His Majesty clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! Arrangements can be completed this very day."

"But I …"

"The messenger shall be dispatched immediately to Lacour, the announcement will be made in three hours-"

"Y, Your Majesty-"

"- the wedding will be held in the afternoon, and-"

"_Your Majesty!"_

His Majesty chuckled. "Forgive me. Fear not; it was but a little mischief on our part."

Claude practically collapsed. "You- ugh - Your Majesty, please don't do that."

"Our apologies once again." The king smiled. "In all honesty, it would be a most convenient way out. It cannot be said that such a solution is unwelcome." He shook his head. "But truly, we could not expect – nor could we force – you, a stranger, to be burdened with our troubles." He sighed again, deeply.

"But … that's not the whole story, is it?"

The king raised his head. "What do you mean to be telling us?"

"Well …" Claude swallowed, throwing a sideways look at Dias again before pressing on. "It's not just the difficulty with Prince Clother, is it? There's the Sorcery Globe, and it seems to have caused a number of strange mutations in the wildlife …"

The king nodded. "We wish to obtain more information about the Sorcery Globe, but thus far it has proven somewhat difficult."

"The survey team that was sent," Dias interrupted. "It hasn't returned."

To the left of the monarch, a long-bearded counsellor – most likely the so-called oldest and wisest advisor, as well as the genius behind the brilliant decision, Dias presumed – opened his mouth, but Roderick raised a hand to silence him.

"Perceptive, as always," replied the king. "You are correct."

"And so?" Dias said.

Roderick lowered his hand. "As you know, the Sorcery Globe fell on the continent of El. The Kingdom of El is presently engaged in war against an army of monsters. But we do not have much information on how great or serious a conflict this is. With the present turmoil and the lack of usable routes and willing vessels crossing over to the continent, whatever contacts we can make are strained. Everything we receive is from the battlefield and difficult to understand."

"I would imagine," Dias responded, "that the disappearance of the previous survey team might give some idea as to the seriousness of the conflict."

The advisor who had come forward previously rapped his staff loudly against the floor. "And how," he said sharply, "are we to decide the best move to make if we have no information on which to base our judgments? That would be sheer folly. That is why we have decided to summon adventurers to form a new survey team."

Dias gazed at the advisor with contempt. "And how effective do you expect them to be, given your past successes?"

The king smiled tiredly at the exchange. "It is a gamble. But we have no other choice."

"I'd like to volunteer," Claude said out of nowhere.

"What?" Dias and Roderick said at the same time.

Claude looked taken aback at the simultaneous exclamation, then laughed mildly. "I know being captured by bandits isn't exactly the greatest demo of my skills," he said. "It _is_ kind of embarrassing. But I do have scouting experience, and I'm actually not completely useless in battle."

"Well-" The king hesitated. "You certainly seem a stout lad … " He turned to Dias for confirmation.

Dias paused, then nodded. "He's actually not completely useless in battle-"

"Thanks a lot," Claude remarked dryly, but didn't seem all that offended.

"- But I'm also not completely convinced," he finished.

Claude frowned. "I'm … very interested in finding out more about the Sorcery Globe, myself." He hesitated for a moment, then quickly added. "And I don't have anything tying me down to a particular place."

"Most of the mercenaries in this town could say the same," Dias countered evenly.

"Why would I have to start with El?" Claude wondered. "Couldn't you have a smaller team, just one or two people so as to not cause any alarm, looking for clues on this continent first? After all, the mutations are affecting the entire pla- all of Expel, and not only the Sorcery Globe's actual point of impact. There must be some trigger point – some sort of connection – on this side as well."

"… That is quite true," Roderick admitted. "You would need a travel passport to access sufficient regions for gathering such information."

"At the same time," Claude persisted, "I could look for your son. I think," he added wryly, "there might be additional and unnecessary confusion if someone else were assigned the task."

"True," the king repeated. "You proffer a good argument. But … we must decline your request."

Claude frowned again. "Your Majesty, if I may ask _why …_?"

"We think it an unwise decision for you to travel and seek out hidden information in such a manner. We do not wish to restrict your personal freedom, but under these circumstances we must set some boundaries for safeguarding the kingdom. It is a dangerous time, even for an experienced swordsman, and in your case the danger of monsters is compounded with the matter of brigands."

Claude raised an eyebrow. "Aren't bandits a problem for everyone?"

"That may be true, but your particular situation has a unique impact on Cross' delicate position."

"Er, right," Claude agreed, chagrined. "Well, what if I found someone to go with me?"

The king nodded. "That would be a possible solution. However, Cross will dictate that your companion must be an extremely skilled warrior whose loyalty to the kingdom is beyond question. You must appreciate why."

"Of course."

"For reasons discussed earlier, you must appreciate that Cross at present cannot readily supply any such persons from our own military ranks."

"… Yes."

"You must also be aware that mercenaries are at a shortage due to the drafting for the effort in El."

Claude glanced at Dias. "Well, what about-"

"- and that others who have not yet been recruited, such as Dias, are most likely preparing for the upcoming Tournament of Arms."

Claude paused. His brows knit together. "The upcoming …?"

"Surely you have not forgotten that this is the year of the Arms?"

"Uh, yes. I mean, no," said Claude, but he still looked somewhat puzzled. "So … I assume the odds are pretty low of finding someone who fits all the qualifications."

"Ah, so you see why we cannot grant your request. Unless Dias wishes to volunteer … "

All eyes were on him now. As if he were fool enough to make a decision at this moment. He wanted to see how this path would play out, especially since he was fairly sure both sides still had unfinished business pertaining to the recent developments. The full length of Claude's unbelievable story, the strangely prolonged wait for the audience and the details of the situation in El … He was willing to bet one side or the other was going to pull out another card.

Dias folded his arms. "I don't believe there's enough in it for me right now to make that decision."

The king nodded, and turned back to Claude. "… or are you yourself aware of another potential candidate …?"

Claude shifted his feet slightly, awkwardly. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone else in Cross."

"We appreciate that you know what our decision must be."

"… Yes," the youth said, clearly displeased with the outcome.

"We are most grateful for your cooperation in the matter." The king folded his hands. "Now then … is there anything else we should discuss?"

"Actually, yes," Claude said slowly. "There's one more thing."

_Just as expected._

"And that would be?"

"I lost a very important item back when I was attacked. It's imperative that I recover it ASA-ah, immediately." He paused. "It might be asking too much, but is there any chance, that is, would it be possible for Your Majesty to keep an eye out for it? … As Your Majesty clearly outlined the reasons why I shouldn't be wandering around by myself."

Dias had to smile inwardly; from what he'd seen of the youth's personality, he suspected, were the situation and audience otherwise, that last sentence would have come out much more sarcastic than it actually sounded. He also had doubts that Claude would actually heed the clearly outlined reasons if it came down to it. The youth was undoubtedly hoping for an extra pair of eyes to search for this precious item.

Roderick leaned forward with slight interest. "What sort of item?"

"Well …" He hesitated, and shot yet another glance at Dias. "I don't think you've seen anything like it, and it's kind of hard to describe, but I'll try."

_The 'phase gun' he was obsessed with when I first found him at the hideaway,_ Dias recalled. The youth had tried to detail it to him then, but had been so flustered none of it had made much sense. Perhaps this time would be different; whether that would prove anything was the question.

"It's like, hmm, what's the closest thing …" Claude rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Um, sorry if this sounds like a strange question, Your Majesty, but do the words _pistol _or _musket_ mean anything to you?"

Dias raised an eyebrow at the bizarre terms while the sovereign blinked, then took it in stride. "We cannot say they do."

"Okay. The structure is kind of like a crossbow, I guess-"

A crossbow. Well, that was a familiar enough object. Dias closed his eyes, trying to picture the item as he followed along with Claude's words.

"- only, smaller; it fits in one hand-"

The mental image of the crossbow shrank in size.

"- and it's not made of wood, more like a hard metallic material-"

The miniature crossbow took on a reflective sheen, like a suit of plate mail.

"- with a, I guess the closest equivalent would be a combustion engine?- er, no, wait, it's too early – more like a … a barrel?"

The crossbow sprouted a tiny wine barrel. Dias frowned.

"… Never mind, those are revolvers," Claude was muttering when the mercenary opened his eyes, sounding exasperated and clearly disgusted with his attempt.

"Most … interesting," Roderick interrupted, a bemused expression on his face that was mirrored by his counsellors. "What is this? Have you seen anything like this before, Dias?"

"No."

He turned back to the youth. "We are sorry to say we have no familiarity with such an … item. It may help if we had more information. What is the nature of this object?"

"It's …" Claude hesitated. "It's a weapon."

Dias raised an eyebrow. _It certainly doesn't sound like one._ In the back of his mind, he vaguely recalled Claude saying something of the sort, but had pushed it out of the realm of logical possibility at the time.

"A weapon!" the king exclaimed, echoing the swordsman's thoughts. "It does not seem very effective. It is quite blunt, and the size does not seem suitable for, ah, bludgeoning. You compared it to a crossbow. Does it fire anything?"

"Well, it doesn't really require physical contact, and it doesn't have any projectiles …"

"We are afraid we don't quite follow."

"Um …" Claude grimaced, clearly struggling with an explanation. "It channels energy."

The king paused.

Dias narrowed his eyes; the sovereign's expression was unreadable.

"Ah," Roderick continued, as though nothing had happened. "A Heraldric tool, is it?" He leaned forward. "What sort of crests does it employ? It will be easier to identify if we know what symbols to look for."

"It … doesn't use crests."

"Is that so? Then what does it use?"

"It … uses light."

Something passed over the king's face; it was gone in an instant, before it could be distinguished. Experienced green eyes exchanged a sharp glance with alert crimson ones.

At the core they were both cynics of a sort; they had to be. But Dias was fairly sure he knew exactly what had crossed the king's mind.

_When the land of Expel is in danger, a warrior from another world, dressed in alien raiments …_

"_Kinda like me." A smile, in jest._

… _and bearing a _Sword of Light …

No, of course not, a ridiculous thought. But something in the back of his mind seemed to say, _if … then …_

No, of course not.

Nothing else in the king's manner gave anything away. "We see," he answered calmly. "And what shall we do, should we find something similar to your description?"

If Claude had noticed the exchange, he certainly _seemed_ oblivious. "It's … rather … dangerous. I mean, there should be a safety guard on it right now to prevent its operation, but I can't risk the possibility that it's been damaged or that someone has tampered with it. If you find it, all I can ask is … please don't try to do anything with it."

"We understand. We will alert our men to report on any such object."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Claude bowed. "I'm very grateful for your assistance."

"We are pleased. And we think you too will be pleased with our next announcement. We have changed our mind."

"Wha-_huh?_" Claude said. Dias noted with interest that a few counsellors were stifling similar exclamations.

"We will be granting you permission to investigate the Sorcery Globe under the terms you requested earlier."

"But … why?" asked Claude, mystified.

"After some deliberation," Roderick smiled, "we have a faint suspicion that the outcome of our decision would not waive your resolve. If we cannot discourage it, it is prudent for us to try to ensure its success to our benefit."

It took a few seconds for the message to sink in. Claude grinned sheepishly. "Uh, yes, Your Majesty. You're very perceptive."

The king's smile widened slightly. "We were wrong; you are like Clother in slightly more than merely appearances."

"You mean the misbehaving part?" Claude replied, grinning. "But – what about the companion?"

"There is that." The king's gaze came to rest on Dias. "We would like to begin by making a formal request-"

Dias shrugged. "Why not."

Claude's jaw dropped. His expression was one of complete confusion.

Roderick nodded smoothly. "Then, for this inconvenience, we must make the rest of your travels as unhindered as possible." He snapped his fingers, and a scribe to the left of the throne stood, bowed quickly, sat down again, and began to write furiously. "You shall be provided with a passport. Complete freedom to travel the continent of Cross, including the Mountain Palace, and permission to use the direct passage to the continent of El via the Port of Clik when you so choose."

The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Dias' mouth. "Very generous of you, Your Majesty."

The king chuckled. "It is rare for such autonomy to be granted; however, there is a personal stake in the outcome. Your purpose is two-fold: find out what you can about the Sorcery Globe … and should you also encounter Prince Clother, render him safely back to Cross Castle as soon as you are able. You will be provided with travel money." He nodded to another servant, who bowed and exited the room to make the preparations. "It is small compensation, but please consider this our thanks. Had you not interfered and escorted Claude to the castle, Tria only knows what could have happened."

His gaze rested on Claude again. "And as for you, young man, we thank you for your cooperation and discretion in these matters. We have but one more request to make of you."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

The king smiled. "We shall provide a more … conventional attire for you, so that you may conduct your investigations in a less conspicuous manner. We hope you are not too offended."

Claude laughed. "Not at all."

"Although we could certainly use your appearance to press the idea that the prince was found to be ill before going to rest in the provinces." The sovereign chuckled, then shook his head. "In a more serious vein, we are afraid we cannot permit you to wander around the castle, due to the delicate nature of the situation, but feel free to relax in a guest chamber while we work out the remaining details with Dias."

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"We thank you, young Claude. You may take your leave."

Claude bowed again. Roderick gestured to an attendant, who came forward and ushered the young man out of the room.

Before he stepped out, Claude threw one last look over his shoulder at Dias, a look comprised of relief mixed with befuddlement, before disappearing from sight. The great oak doors shut smoothly behind him.

Dias waited a few moments before speaking. "Of course, the possible lack of cooperation wasn't the only reason you changed your mind."

"Leave us," Roderick said suddenly, gesturing at his attendants to depart. The counsellors looked disgruntled, but obeyed, sweeping out gravely after the other servants had taken their leave.

Once the room was cleared, the king rose from the throne and made his way down to the swordsman. "You must forgive Menelik. Recent events have not been kind to my counsellors; it has not been easy for them."

"Nor yourself," Dias replied.

"Allow us to dispense with formalities for the moment," Roderick said. "I hope you do not mind if I inquire a bit further as to the situation."

"I thought you were being reserved with your questions," the mercenary commented, relaxing his stance.

"For fear of raising suspicion; I do not know what has transpired in your journey, and would like to find out directly from one I can trust. You brought him here thinking that I would know who he was."

"I was hoping."

"I see," the monarch nodded apologetically. "I'm afraid you have your answer. Tell me, throughout your brief travels with Claude, did the young man ever discuss or let slip any hint of his plans? Of his purpose?"

Dias grimaced. "As far as I can tell, he claimed to be lost and trying to find his way back to … wherever he was from."

"And I assume you asked where he was from?"

"… Yes," Dias replied reluctantly.

"And I assume his answer was similar to the session that occurred a few moments ago?"

"If by that you mean incomprehensible, yes."

Roderick stroked his beard. "His style of dress is certainly … unfamiliar. And he has a most peculiar manner of speech I do not recognize."

"Indeed."

"What do you know of Lacour's activities?"

Dias paused at the unexpected direction. _Is there more at stake regarding the potential alliance with Lacour?_

"What should I know?" he replied, guarded.

"Are you aware of the on-going Heraldric research being conducted at Lacour Castle?"

"Vaguely." He wondered where this was heading.

"Do you recognize the name the _Lacour Hope_?"

Dias searched his memory, dense with smoky bar-room rumours of varying degrees of haziness that had crossed his path. "A secret project, under intense development since the Sorcery Globe fell. Or so people say. A powerful incantation?"

"Not quite." The sovereign's voice lowered. "Because of the … impending alliance and the threat of war, Lacour has been updating me with reports on their progress. I should not speak so freely of this, but I feel it is necessary."

_Of course._ Now it made sense."That was the visitor you were speaking with before we arrived," Dias clarified. "The messenger from Lacour. The kingdoms expect the battlefront to expand from El."

Roderick nodded. "We are anticipating it. We must. That is why the success of the _Lacour Hope _is critical. It is the focus, and the culmination, of numerous Heraldric experiments concerning the channelling of energy. Specifically, _a weapon_ that channels energy, more powerfully than any one man."

Dias tensed. "You believe he is defecting from Lacour, or is after Lacourian technology?"

"Not precisely. You see– " The king stroked his beard. "At present, the _Hope _is more than thrice the size of a cannon, and would take at least two teams of the strongest horses to move. And it is still not complete." He took a breath, and shook his head. "It is_ impossible_ for such a weapon to exist."

There was no need to ask what weapon. "I know," Dias replied, easing slightly. "But he doesn't seem to be lying."

"I too do not believe he is lying. He seems an honest – if somewhat confusing – lad." Roderick stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But ... there is a difference between telling what you _believe _to be true, and telling what _is_ true. This weapon cannot be."

_Running his fingers along it, the object was smooth, compact, alien in shape and substance. Glowing runes, ever-changing, flowed up and down what he could only assume to be its face. Its function was unfathomable._

_Out of range._

_The voice was soft, almost sick with disappointment, carried gently by the faintest breeze._

_And the glow in the darkness, like a tightly clustered swarm of fireflies, brighter than the burning of any lamp at night, vanished._

"I would be inclined to agree," Dias acknowledged. "But he has something else with him. He refers to it as …" He furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "A communicator."

Roderick's eyes widened as the swordsman related his experience. "And when I first met him, he briefly described the weapon to me as well. He called it a phase gun, and didn't mention anything about energy or light, but the physical description seems … consistent." He frowned again, wondering what the deal with the barrel component was. "If outlandish."

"I have never had reason to doubt your judgment before – what you say must be true …" The king shook his head in confoundment. "This is a most troubling turn of events."

"Not to mention that you are assuming the Lacourian delegates are providing you with accurate information."

"They have given us no reason to believe otherwise. They are our allies."

"Thanks in large part to that _impending_ marriage, I suppose," Dias returned evenly.

"Which is on the verge of being dashed to the rocks at the feet of Mount Lasguss," Roderick sighed. "I tell you, one day when you have children … ah, leashes or no leashes, it is no use. In any case, you are correct, again." He shook his head. "Someone is lying. Or both sides are telling the truth, and … I dare not even begin to imagine the darkest of what either possibility might imply. We … we cannot jump to conclusions we may prefer simply because of the circumstances.

"However," Roderick spread his hands in a helpless gesture, "our hands are tied. Cross has no further resources to investigate this matter. I ask that you do what you can to uncover the truth."

Dias shrugged, noncommittally. "I don't promise anything."

"That is more than understandable. My apologies for the request – I understand that even if it does fit into your training plans, it is a direction you certainly could not have imagined it would take, and is undoubtedly an inconvenience …"

"From what I've heard today, it may not matter whether there is a Tournament this year or not," Dias replied bluntly.

The king nodded perceptively. "You are right. I … _We_ trust your judgment."

"Good."

"You may take your leave," Roderick said, but the swordsman was already making his way out of the chamber. He had no need for an attendant to guide him out.

* * *

Author's Notes: This is going to be a long-winded one. 

After 37272342304823 years, it's alive again! I apologize for taking so long. I really want to thank everybody who left such wonderful, thoughtful and encouraging comments on this story, even though it has been lying dead in the mud for so long. Thank you!! Your kind words definitely helped to keep me going whenever I hit a rut.

About this chapter … I should really call this story "If/Then: That Fic Where People Stand Around and Talk". Ugh. Political intrigue expert I am not. Also being anal on stupid little things doesn't help speed up the process either. XD; I reread the old stuff and winced a lot at the characterization, so there was quite a bit of reworking, especially in terms of dialogue.

I'm terribly sorry if the temporary resolution of the Claude-Chris situation turned out a little anticlimactic, but I didn't want to have Claude locked up and married off to the princess or something awfully groan-inducing like that – although I suppose this path is probably just as groan-inducing in its own way.

Regarding the "what's a phase gun look like?" sequence: rudimentary firearms like pistols and muskets were used in the 17th century, which is medieval enough for most people's tastes. I'm just conveniently ignoring them here :D Also oops! I completely forgot I already had a mini-scene like this in chapter 1, but I couldn't bear to delete the dialogue after I had written it, so apologies for the redundancy. Stupid me for trying to be clever and doing all these pointless things I forget about later on …

The intruder at the beginning was probably too obvious, but it's a hint of what's to come in the next chapter (with any luck): our segue into the main events of the beginning of the game, albeit from a different angle (literally) …

In short, hopefully more action-y things will take place next chapter, and hopefully it won't take a million years for that chapter to come out! Thanks so much for bearing with me!


	6. FIVE roads of cross

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**FIVE**

**roads of cross**

The shadows were growing long; Dias glanced up at the afternoon sky. He should probably go back to retrieve Claude about now, as staying at the castle under the current circumstances was not a good idea. And, as it was beginning to get late in the day, lodging would likely prove more difficult to find considering the growing number of adventurers in the city.

The stable grounds were quiet, however, and the mercenary rather liked it out here. He watched the two horses feeding contentedly, their tails swishing and swatting away at tiny gnats and flies.

Checking up on their mounts to make sure they were being properly looked after was really an unnecessary task, considering these were Cross' own stables. But Dias was used to doing things himself, and seeing as he much preferred it that way, he found it difficult to break the habit of critiquing other people's work. In any case, having determined that Claude would be heavily supervised in the guest chamber until he was done, he'd decided to seize the opportunity to enjoy the last bit of solitude he would likely have for the next while. As the Castle had already taken care of most of their travel concerns when it came to supplies, however, watching horses chew was the best thing he could think of.

He weighed his options for room and board, idly running a hand along Cynic's shoulder. _Rachel's, perhaps._ She was a kind enough woman, if somewhat prone to jumping to conclusions, and would doubtlessly find them some place to stay. He made a mental note to warn Claude of the owner's bothersome habits before they arrived.

That decided, the swordsman straightened and cracked his neck. "Don't gorge yourselves," he said to the feeding animals. Windsocks lifted her head and snuffled at him, then dipped her head back into the trough and continued to feed. Cynic didn't even bother looking up.

This mildly irritated him for no particular reason. No, he knew why he was irritated, but it was too late to get out of it at this point.

"Your names are ridiculous," he muttered. Unsurprisingly, the horses ignored him.

Leaving it at that, he turned and looked around, searching for a stablehand. He spotted a servant, a different one from before. "You there," he called.

The servant scurried over. "Yes, Master Flac?"

"You know where the Kingdom Hotel is?"

"Yes, sir."

He tossed his head curtly in the direction of the steeds. "Take these horses there once they're done feeding. Tell the owner we'll be there shortly."

The attendant bowed. "At once."

Dias turned, and made his way back to the castle. He took his time with the return walk; there was still plenty on his mind. The mercenary considered the facts as he strolled through the palace, arms folded, head bowed in thought and studying the floor.

_He is not Clother. _That much the king had been able to confirm. Perhaps the sovereign was mistaken? No, he had to assume that this, at least, was fact. Otherwise, his head might explode.

_Then, who is he? Why is he here? What does he want?_ There were so many odd coincidences; almost too many. The resemblance to the prince. The strange clothes. The phase gun. The Warrior of Light legend. The _Lacour Hope. _

He followed the possibility that the youth was a Lacourian spy, sent to infiltrate Cross to uncover the royal family's true loyalties. That he had been foiled in his plans and was now trying to make the most of it. _But if that is the case, what a backwards and ridiculous way to go about the whole thing. And drawing so much attention ... not likely at all._

He entertained the idea that the entire thing was an elaborate setup by the brigands. Led by the bandit king Zand, perhaps, to grasp more power in this time of confusion. _Which in this situation is, admittedly, a somewhat ludicrous and highly improbable scenario._

He had no apparent ties to Cross - aside from bearing a striking similarity to Clother - and his connections to Lacour were questionable. Of the three kingdoms, that obviously left only El. So if he were from El ... which was unable to communicate with any of the nations right now - or so it appeared - he would be here ... to ... what? _What agenda could there possibly be??_

El was hardly a warlike nation. Neither was it known for being a powerful empire. Certainly not compared to the likes of Lacour, especially not in its technology. Its craftsmen could build the most beautiful cathedral on Expel, but they could not even begin to crawl behind a construction such as the _Hope. _Assuming the king's information was correct.

Dias scowled. He hated thinking about politics. And no matter how many times he continued to turn it over in his head, to dissect it, to analyze every piece and puzzle, it kept returning to the same blasted thing. The simplest answer was, of course, that Claude was exactly who he said he was, searching for exactly what he said he was. Thus far, everything kept returning to this. But there were still gaps and evidence lacking, not to mention the fact that it was just so nonsensical and unrealistic that it was, unsurprisingly, difficult to believe.

_But assuming all things equal …_

And again, after what he had seen ...

Dias was so deep in thought, he didn't notice the other man until they nearly collided at the foot of the staircase.

The stranger was extremely tall, about his own height - a memorable characteristic in and of itself - with long waves of light hair casting a shadow over his features. The man raised one black-gloved hand in apology as he turned sideways, edging past the mercenary. "Beg 'pardon. Excuse me."

So consumed was Dias by his puzzlings that he didn't even remember to glower. He merely nodded, absently, as the man passed. He was halfway up the staircase before the encounter registered, halting him in his steps.

The material of the man's long, white coat – in that brief glance, it had seemed similar to Claude's odd jacket, smooth and bearing the same strange sheen. And Dias thought he might have caught a glimpse of something on the man's forehead, under the long bangs – _A strangely-shaped scar? _

He turned, but the man was already gone like a ghost, down the steps and beyond the spiral of the staircase, out of sight.

Dias turned back, rubbing at his forehead. _I'm losing my focus, getting distracted too easily._ He tried to shake it off. He knew from experience to trust his gut instincts, but lately there had been so much being thrown his way that it was difficult to concentrate, to sift through everything in his mind. He cursed mentally, hating this cloud of the unknown hovering above his head.

The guard at the door nodded when he approached, stepping aside to allow him access. He entered the guest chamber and found himself facing a pair of legs dangling from the bed in the center of the room, feet tapping the floor, the owner sprawled on the bed.

"Still alive?" he asked, not particularly interested in the answer.

"I'm fine," Claude said. "Sorry to disappoint you." He sat up, stretching his arms and placing his hands on the bedspread behind him. "Just a bit bored, that's all."

Dias paused. The transformation was remarkable. Now dressed in more conventional attire, the youth no longer resembled an escapee from a travelling show. From the waist up, he wore a light tan tunic with sleeves cropped just past the elbow, a second layer underneath. The high collar and long sleeves of this dark undershirt wrapped loosely around his neck and wrists. From the waist down, his pants were a similar shade, the fabric of the leggings hanging over his shins, wrapped in place with cord.

His gloves, Dias noticed, remained the same strange fingerless ones from before, albeit slightly concealed by his now-long sleeves. Also the same was his red headband. And, similarly semi-hidden by the leggings, his strange shoes.

_Well, it's an improvement._ Out loud, Dias said, "You actually look like a sane person."

"So do you," Claude shot back.

The corner of Dias' mouth curled up. "How is it?"

Claude tugged at the edge of the tunic underlayer. "Scratchy," he said, returning the half-smile. "This is hand-wove cotton, or something, right? It's kind of weird, but I'll just have to get used to it." He shook his head. "I nearly had a heart attack when the king was joking about the wedding." He glared at the mercenary, but in good humour. "Thanks a lot for the help back there."

Dias shrugged. "Was I supposed to do something?"

Claude made a scowling face. "For future reference, _hell yes_." Then he laughed. "But I guess I can't complain; it went really well. Much better than I was expecting."

"And what were you expecting?"

"Instantaneous castle arrest," he said with a grin. "So." He cocked his head. "What were you and the king talking about?"

"What do you think we were talking about?" Dias countered.

"I don't know," Claude said stubbornly. "But you sure took your sweet time."

"We haggled over the amount of money he was going to give us," the swordsman replied without missing a beat. "Then I went outside to check on the horses and enjoy what was left of my sanity before I throw it all to the wind."

"Oh really," the youth said, clearly skeptical.

Dias shrugged. "Go ask the stablehand."

Claude raised both hands in defeat for the time being. "Okay, fine. So now what?"

"The day is almost half over and the horses need more rest, so there's no point in setting off until tomorrow."

"Sure." Claude nodded. He scratched the back of his neck, then clasped both hands together, resting them in his lap, and looked up at the mercenary. "Well, we can't stay at the castle, can we? Because as nice as that might be, it seems kind of disruptive. If I run into the princess or something, I mean."

Dias nodded. "I know the owner of a local inn; we'll likely be able to lodge there for the night."

…

"Hey, question," said Claude suddenly, as they were walking down the cobbled streets towards the town square.

"Answer," Dias replied.

Claude glanced at him, an expression of mild amusement and annoyance playing on his face, then seemed to shrug it off. "What's the Tournament of Arms?" he inquired. "The king mentioned it was an event all the non-conscripted mercenaries would be training for."

"The most acclaimed fighting tourney on Expel," Dias replied, his tone of voice not acclaiming it quite that much. He had decided that it wasn't worth the trouble to his brain to argue internally whether or not Claude was pretending to be ignorant anymore. For the rest of this day, at least. "Every five years at the Colosseum of Lacour. The kingdom is renowned for its weaponsmiths, and the Arms is a test of their talents. Overtime it grew into a so-called trial of bravery and skill for the warriors demonstrating the arms also. It draws fighters and artisans from all the continents, as well as audiences from the most common of peasants to the richest of nobility."

"Sounds like a lot of people have a stake in this," Claude commented.

"Indeed. Some of the wealthy elite will formally back certain smiths or champions as well, and often will have a great deal riding on the outcome of the tournament."

"So how does it work?"

"One-on-one melee combat. No sorcery. All weapons and armour must be sponsored by a smith."

"I see. Can anyone enter?"

"So long as they can procure a sponsorship. And vice versa for the smith, to find a fighter willing to bear their arms."

"And when a winner is declared ...?"

"The champion receives endless fame ..." - the mercenary half-smiled - "... until the next Arms. And some trinkets presented by the King of Lacour. The sponsor of the champion has the honour of calling itself the 'Lacour of Lacour" until otherwise dethroned. The greatest honour is supposedly the feat itself."

"Ah," said Claude. "It sounds like quite the event."

Dias raised an eyebrow at the undertone of the remark. "You sound dubious. What do you think?"

Claude returned the expression. "Does it really matter what I think?"

"No."

"I think," Claude said after a moment, "that all the smiths would flood the entries with tons of fighters using their weapons to better their chances of sponsoring a winner. That competing smiths and their warriors would sabotage each others' equipment and fighting condition. And that the nobles would bribe their opponents' best warriors to get them to throw their fights."

Dias had to laugh. "And you call _me_ a cynic."

"Or maybe what I think was influenced by the way you presented the whole thing," Claude answered dryly.

"Is that so," Dias replied, still vaguely amused.

"So why do _you_ enter?'

Dias smirked. "If there is anything worth fighting with or anyone worth fighting against, they will most likely be there."

"I see," Claude said, looking thoughtful. "But really ..." he shook his head. "Is there seriously that much difference in the make of the weapons for the smiths to deserve that kind of acclaim? I mean, yeah, I assume a horribly-made sword would fall apart in battle, but at that level ... Isn't it really the skill of the warrior that makes the ultimate decision? Not to dismiss the abilities of the smiths or anything, but some of it just sounds like marketing crap to me."

"Marketing crap?"

Claude smiled. "Guess I'm just being overly idealistic. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Well, people will always have different priorities; life is like that."

Dias sighed. "You should stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Using those ... words."

"Oh," said the youth, looking dismayed. "Sorry. I forgot.

"But you know," he mused, his brain clearly already moving in a different direction faster than Dias could comprehend it, "I think it would be easier if I actually looked different. Like, ET or something. Then it wouldn't be as hard to convince people."

"ET?"

Claude laughed. "Then again, it might also be easier to end up on the wrong end of a pitchfork."

Dias shook his head. It was going to be a long journey.

Claude looked up at him, seemingly remembering something, and the youth's grin quickly faded. "So … Why are you helping me, anyways? Not that I'm ungrateful, but you have your own list of priorities to deal with, and besides, you thought I was insane. You probably still do. Why not leave me to flounder about on my own?"

"And leave you to the bandits?"

"Oh, so you're doing it out of the shiny goodness of your heart."

Dias snorted. "Hardly."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

The mercenary sighed. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you'll cause if you get captured again?"

"A lot," Claude admitted. "But between you, me and the king, there are still some pieces that don't quite fit."

"Well, you can puzzle over them a little longer," Dias replied, then noticed the smile on the young man's face. "What?"

"Nothing. You made a pun."

"Whatever." Dias looked away. "You said you wanted to investigate the Sorcery Globe on Cross. Where exactly are you planning to start?"

Claude shrugged. "No clue."

"You might have a problem."

"I have lots of problems," Claude retorted. "But sense of direction isn't one of them. I can get a map, talk to people, ask around, et cetera. Sorcery Globe fallout is apparently everywhere, and nobody knows anything about it, much less what to look for, so it doesn't really matter where I start as long as I get pointed somewhere and get moving. Or am I wrong, as usual?"

_He has good instincts, at least_. "Fine," Dias replied. "But it would help if you had a point of reference, or at least some logic behind the framework for where you begin, or you'll be running around forever trying to catch up with the latest rumour from some wag in the back alley."

"Any suggestions?" Claude asked. "I'm all ears."

"You have three tasks. I'm assuming," said Dias, "in terms of priority, they are: one- find your phase gun." He counted them off on his fingers as he spoke. "Two- gather information on the Sorcery Globe. And a very distant three- keep an eye out for a certain someone who looks exactly like you."

Claude smiled. "Dead on."

"Which is fine, because enough time has passed that said someone's whereabouts are a complete question mark. He could have wandered anywhere by now. But if you're looking for the phase gun, you want bandits. If you're looking for Sorcery Globe information, right now the most logical thing to do would be to explore areas dense with monsters or strange activity. Am I wrong?"

"No, that sounds right," said Claude. "I don't know that much about bandit activities, and I might be going out on a limb, but they should be relatively easier to track down than monsters - and we can keep an eye out for bizarre phenomena at the same time. Right?"

Dias nodded. "Certainly more predictable. They're cowards by nature, but their numbers do make it more troublesome."

"Do they have any main thoroughfares or organized areas of operation?"

"One group has fairly blatant headquarters set up in the Port of Hilton," he answered. "And it would be foolish to go there directly. What are you planning to do?"

_"Oof," _came the reply.

"Are you a blind and lame beggar?" grumbled the perpetrator, a fat and balding man taking up more than several individuals' allotment of air and space. As he spoke, he did an about-face to glower at them, and blanched immediately on seeing the swords at their sides. "Ah, forgive me, mercy, 'twas my fault completely -" He backed away, sweating profusely, then turned tail and tried to lose himself in the crowd, with little success due to his girth.

"Uh," said Claude, watching the fat man trying to hide himself. "There were a lot of people when we first got here, but it wasn't like this at all, was it? What's going on?"

Dias frowned. The crowd had started to grow unusually thick as they neared the town square. A throng of people were gathered in the very center, surrounding some unseen spectacle.

"_What _is the problem?" A dulcet voice, feminine and self-assured, was rising from the center of the crowd. "I believe it's mine, and no one else's."

"_Yours!" _The second voice was sputtering, snarling with outrage and indignance. "Yours because of _trickery_, perhaps …!"

Using his height to his advantage, Dias peered over the top of the crowd. That second voice belonged to a particularly slimy looking man, spectacled and overdressed in a thick, dark cloak over a brocade vest lined with elaborate, bejewelled trimmings. And the owner of the first voice …

It was the woman he had seen at the castle.

He sighed and shook his head. Even after he had gone to all the trouble of pointing her out to the guards, they had done nothing? Truly shoddy work. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Claude beginning to move forward through the crowd.

"Where are you going?" Dias asked, grabbing the youth by the arm. "You can see everything from right here."

"Well, I'm not you, Mister Six Foot Whatever," Claude replied, shaking off the other man's grasp, and heading in.

Dias sighed, again, and rolled his eyes. He had little choice but to follow, and promptly did so by pushing his way through the crowd in the most straightforward manner. Naysayers turned to protest, but quickly changed their minds upon meeting his dispassionate gaze. In a few seconds they were both near the front of the throng, and could see more than enough between - or over, in Dias' case - the heads of the last layer of people.

"_Trickery?"_ The woman pressed a hand to her chest, oh-so _clearly_ affronted. The gesture was deliberate – her fingers swept across the curve of her breast, pushing aside just enough fabric to reveal a brief – but unmistakable – hint of a dark, intricate tattoo that would be winding its way down her body.

"She's a Heraldry user – a Crest Sorceress," Dias told Claude. "She knows what she's doing. It's pointless to get involved; for all we know, they're a pair of double-crossing swindlers having a public spat."

"I don't think so, my _dear_ wizard," the sorceress in question was saying.

Claude frowned. "But-" he protested, clearly unsatisfied.

"_Enough!"_ the man roared. "Hand it over or I'll _kill_ you … you _witch!"_

"Don't do anything stupid-" Dias started, sensing Claude tense up.

"Who does he think he is?" the youth muttered, and pushed through the crowd into the centre of the the square.

"- like that," Dias finished, uselessly. The crowd around him hummed with anticipation at the newcomer joining the fray.

"Hmm …?" The sorceress turned her head to look at the figure at her side.

The wizard glowered at Claude. "Out of the way, _boy! _This has nothing to do with you!"

"Hey," Claude said, raising both hands palms out. "I don't know what you're arguing about, but that's no way to treat a lady."

"_What?"_ the man snarled.

"You need to behave more like a gentleman," Claude continued.

"You must be joking," Dias muttered under his breath, incredulous. The man laughed, a distasteful, coughing cackle that perfectly suited his appearance. "Who do you think you're talking to, _boy?"_ He strode menacingly towards Claude.

_Bother._

Not for the first time that day, Dias exhaled silently in exasperation, then forcefully shouldered the remaining gawkers aside and stepped into the fray himself.

"You might want to rethink that," he said as he slid in next to Claude. He rested one hand on the hilt of his blade and lowered the scabbard into the draw position, causing the warlock to pause. Around them, a wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd at this exciting development.

"Forget them," the woman snapped, pointing at the wizard and then at herself. "You had something to say to _me_, didn't you?"

The wizard turned his head back towards her. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I did. This has gone on long enough." He gestured, fingers detailing obscure patterns in the air. "Now you're really going to die."

It was all so overly theatrical, Dias had to roll his eyes.

The warlock's brow furrowed in intense concentration as he mouthed a silent incantation, hands clutching some invisible sphere in the air against his chest. Dias felt something shift in the atmosphere, like the forming of a thread, tight and tense, stretching and straining around them. The sorceress looked off towards the edge of the crowd in a disinterested manner and ran a hand through her thick tresses.

The air began to grow heavy from the warlock's spell. The magess placed her hands on her hips and smirked, tapping one foot impatiently. Finally, when that something undefined in the air felt as though it were nearing a snapping point, she pursed her lips and raised both arms high. Her lips moved wordlessly in a brief, unheard chant, and the runes visible on her body began to glow, charging their energy. She reached out, and a searing bolt of fire lanced from her fingers, arcing in a burning, lightning-fast strike to the warlock's chest. It was small and not particularly powerful, doing no permanent damage, but impressive enough for the onlookers and certainly more than enough to ruin her opponent's concentration.

"Agh!" The wizard yelped, clutching at his hand and trying to maintain his imaginary dignity as he hopped about. "You- !!"

The sorceress placed one hand back on her hip. "If you want a fight," she declared, "choose your opponent carefully. I still have no idea what this has to do with _me_, however." She smirked.

The wizard clenched his fist, his face burning red. "You'll regret this!" he shrieked, and tromped to the crowd's edge. "Get out of my way!" he snarled, and people backed away to let him pass.

"Hmph," the woman sniffed, satisfied. "Perhaps that will teach him a lesson." She knelt down, scooping something up from the ground – a small, worn scroll, Dias saw. Getting back up, she dusted herself off, then turned to face them with a fetching smile.

"Well, hello there, darling." She winked in Claude's direction. "That was _awfully_ chivalrous of you. I was actually quite moved by your courage."

"Oh, it's nothing," Claude said. Dias noted with dismay that the youth had a silly grin on his face.

"My name is Celine Jules," she said, running one white gloved hand through her hair and flipping the silver tresses lightly.

"I'm Claude Kenni, and this is Dias Flac," Claude answered, a little too quickly for Dias' liking. "It was our pleasure."

"The swordsman, Dias Flac?" Celine said, sounding mildly startled, but quickly returning to her smooth and completely saccharine delivery. "How lucky that you were both passing by. Say, didn't you just have an audience with the King?" she prattled on.

Dias raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know that?"

Celine smiled charmingly – cloyingly, the mercenary thought – again. "I was visiting the castle as well, and some of the soldiers were talking about delaying other audiences for two special guests. I imagine, whom could it be but two gentlemen as distinguished as yourselves?"

"Well-" said Claude, sounding somewhat flustered.

"Is that so," Dias replied, unmoved.

"Now now," she chided lightly, "Don't be that way … I have some information that will interest you." She unrolled the tattered scroll that had been the cause of the disturbance earlier, displaying its contents without making them discernable. "I just managed to obtain this at the auction today." She glanced about furtively – like a rat, Dias thought – then leaned forward as though sharing a grand secret. "It's a map that shows the location of an ancient treasure in a cave. How would you like to come with me to find it?"

This had gone far enough. "Forget it," he answered before Claude could say a word. "It's a waste of time."

Claude glanced at the swordsman as if remembering something. "Um, yes." He turned back to the woman. "Thank you, but we have something more important to do than search for treasure."

"But you might find something that will help you on your quest," she persisted. "It isn't even that far from here. Won't you come with me to Cross Cave ... darlings?"

But _of course_ it would be the Cross Caves. "Those caverns have already been completely explored," Dias told Claude.

"Well," Celine said quickly, "It seems this map was discovered only recently."

"Are you daft?" Dias said, turning back to face her directly. "We don't have time to waste with loose women."

"_What?"_ The woman's eyes widened, taken aback. "W-what do you take me for?"

She was probably used to getting her way whenever men were involved. "You _must _be daft," Dias repeated impassively.

She squared her shoulders, striving to make herself more imposing. But since the swordsman was almost a good foot taller than her, forcing her to look up at him, the effect was diminished somewhat. She made up for it by glaring daggers. "I'm a _Crest Sorceress!"_

The crowd that had dispersed earlier was not-so quietly reforming. Dias shrugged, unimpressed. As if she hadn't already been flaunting that fact shamelessly. "Oh. My apologies. I didn't realize witches had a higher calling in that area."

"Y-you …" Her beautiful features became twisted in an expression of fury. "You mercenary _cad! _How _dare_ you! You've got a hell of a lot of nerve! Who do you think you are?!"

"Someone who isn't foolish enough," Dias returned evenly, using his convenient height to throw a condescending gaze down at her, "to think that your intentions are anything but self-serving."

The magess took a breath and smiled thinly, composing herself. She swivelled to face Claude. "And what do _you_ say, Claude dear?" she implored, clasping her hands together, her long eyelashes batting lightly. "Surely this _boor_ doesn't speak for _you_. How can a nice young man like yourself travel with a brute who treats ladies in such an uncouth manner?"

"Uh, I, uh-" Claude stammered intelligently.

"Lady nothing," Dias snapped, grabbing Claude by an arm and shoving the youth behind him. "Your façade is as pathetic as your dress."

"I-I beg your pardon?!" Her voice pitched up nearly an octave in affront.

"What do you take us for – blind halfwits like yourself?" Dias continued callously, getting into it. "Do you really think no one saw you skulking about at the castle?" Claude, who had begun stepping around him to protest, stopped short as he continued. "Perhaps you could do me the honour of enlightening me as to the true nature of your intentions, as I'm not aware of any ladies whose favourite pasttime consists of spying on the king's throne room. _Incompetently_, I might add."

Claude looked at him, surprise evident on his face. The woman's mouth formed into an 'o'; she worked her jaw, but nothing came out. The chatter among the observers grew noisier.

"Any ass with two bits of sense still clinging to its skull can see what you're after." He leaned in towards her ear and lowered his voice, more for their discretion than hers, as he wasn't too fond of the idea of catching the attention of other treasure seekers after this bout. "If you want to get your claws on a _passport_ so badly, there are a few places I can suggest to you where a 'lady' like yourself might find better luck."

He straightened and watched the results with vague interest. At the not-so hidden insult, the sorceress' face grew impossibly red. Her rage was practically palpable; it was easy to envision smoke coming out of her ears. Claude, meanwhile, wore an expression that was an interesting mixture of dismay and horror. In the moments that followed, the swordsman entertained the image of a Fire Heraldry user spontaneously combusting; for a few seconds, it seemed like a very plausible conclusion.

Then as quickly as the entire row had started, it was over. She viciously rolled up her map, turned, and stormed off without another word. The crowd, having had the opportunity to see her fiery performance earlier with the wizard, gave her a wide berth as she passed. And seeing that there would be no further skirmish to watch, the people grew disinterested and dispersed once more.

"Well, that was ugly," Claude muttered.

"Don't look so closely next time," Dias replied with more relish than he intended to come out.

"That's not what I meant," his companion interrupted, irritated. "I was talking about your behaviour." He frowned, looking conflicted. "And hers. I thought she was going to fry us!"

"Really. I thought she was going to explode."

"I think she did," Claude answered dryly. "But - how did you - I mean, why _didn't_ she fry you?"

"Did you see how long it took her to cast that Firebolt spell? And how easily it disrupted the wizard's incantation, which took even longer to charge?"

Claude snorted. "Oh, and of course you would have been able to lop off her head in less time than that."

"Pity we couldn't test it," Dias replied, tapping at the hilt of his sword nonchalantly.

Claude paused, disconcerted. He was clearly unable to tell whether the swordsman was kidding or not, and was certainly recalling the bandit that had been carved in record time back at the hideout.

"Lesson number one," Dias said, taking the opportunity to drill some useful knowledge into the thick skull he was going to be stuck with for a while. "Mages are not effective at close range."

"And what's lesson number two?" the youth retorted. "It's good to piss off as many people as possible?"

The warrior ignored the sarcasm, and turned to glare at the younger man. "Lesson number two is this: if something is really that important to you, don't let _anything_ distract you from it."

Dias waited for the words to sink in, and when the youth's sarcastic expression had faded to chagrin, he continued, "Treasure hunters salivate over free passes; that's all she wanted. That's all any of them want – if you have access to something that will benefit them, they'll cling all over you until they get it."

At that, Claude's face became strangely blank and devoid of emotion. "You're right," he finally said, surprising the mercenary. "I should have known. I apologize."

"Good," Dias said, mollified. Stifling his mild astonishment at the sudden change, he warned, "Don't pull a stunt like that again. If the bandits don't get your hide first, I might be tempted to."

They made the remainder of the walk to the Kingdom Hotel in silence.

…

Rachel looked exactly the same as he remembered: a short, plump, cheerful woman with merry eyes and a thick mass of blue curls, ribbons of hair that frizzed wildly despite being pulled in a tight style to the back of her head. It seemed, Dias reflected, that after a person reached a certain age, or perhaps a certain stage in his or her life, there was little left that would change.

He wondered, idly, if he had become one of those people.

"Oh my goodness!" Rachel exclaimed when she spotted them entering the Kingdom Hotel. She noisily dropped everything to hurry around the desk to greet them. "If it isn't Young Master Flac!" she cried with delight, grabbing his hand. "I've been waiting since the gentleman from the castle brought the horses to my stables. I haven't seen you in quite a while!"

"Good to see you, Rachel," he replied.

Claude watched their exchange with an expression of surprise on his face. Rachel turned her head and blinked, as if just noticing the youth.

She cocked her head at him. "And this young man would be ...?"

"Claude," Dias answered. "We're travelling together for the time being."

"Pleased to meet you," Claude said politely, extending a hand.

Rachel's eyes grew wide as saucers, and she clasped a hand to her face. Too late, Dias recalled the warning he had intended to give before they entered the hotel, and his stomach sank.

"Oh _my." _She looked back up at him innocently. "Dias, you've _never_ brought someone with you to stay at my hotel before!" She cupped one hand over her mouth. "Is this what I think it is?" she whispered very loudly.

Dias groaned inwardly. From experience, he knew the best way to answer was to be as succinct and short as possible, as anything else would be taken horribly out of context.

"No," he replied.

She laughed out loud, slapping him cheerfully on the arm and clapping her hands together. "Oh, Young Master Flac, aren't _you_ the jokester! But don't you worry. You're like my own nephew. Aunt Rachel will never tell anyone – it will be our little secret!"

She turned back to Claude, appraising him from head to toe and back up again, then clasped both of his hands in hers. Claude blinked, looking more than somewhat taken aback by the attention.

"Huh?" he said.

Rachel patted him approvingly on the cheek. "Don't you worry now. We'll take _very _good care of you!"

"Uh … thanks," Claude replied.

She beamed at both of them, looking from one face to the other, oblivious to their respective expressions of confusion and resignment. "Well, well," she said, sighing happily. "It just so happens that one of our best rooms is open." Her smile widened. "I'll let you stay tonight for free!"

"Really?" exclaimed Claude, not helping matters any. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" she chuckled. "Anything to make the night a special one! Now come along." She grabbed Claude's elbow, half-pushing and half-pulling him along. The youth shot Dias a puzzled look, and the mercenary merely rolled his eyes.

They made their way down the well-furnished corridor, lined with vases of overflowing flowers that sat on pedestals outside every other room. Rachel stopped at the final door, pausing and sighing happily again before unlocking and throwing it open with a great deal more fanfare than the reality of the situation warranted.

"Here you are!" She spread her arms out wide. "Enjoy!" She trotted off down the hallway, chortling to herself and leaving them standing in front of the open door.

"What was _that_ all about?" Claude asked.

"Try not to think about it too much," Dias replied. He entered the room, undoing his cloak and throwing it on a chair. He then sat down on one of the two handsomely-made beds and began to remove his boots. The upcoming journey was sure to induce more than a few headaches, and he intended to get as much sleep as possible.

"Wow," said Claude, his back to the swordsman as he eyed the chamber's trimmings. Fine embroidered linens, vases of fresh blossoms and bowls of dried petals adorned the room in generous quantities. "This room is bigger than I expected." He sniffed the air. "And ... flowery."

"And most importantly," Dias answered, tossing his boots on the floor, "complimentary."

"That's a terrible thing to say to your Aunt Rachel," Claude replied.

Dias raised an eyebrow; for once he couldn't tell from the tone of the voice whether or not the youth was being sincere or sarcastic.

Claude turned, and made his way to the other bed. "Hey, Dias," he said over his shoulder.

"What?" the mercenary replied, taking no time to settle in.

"... Nothing. Night."

"Hmmph," Dias grunted, rolling over to face the opposite direction, hoping to be on the verge of sleep in a matter of seconds.

"Thanks. A lot. I mean that."

He pretended not to have heard a thing.

…

Dias slept straight through anything, not caring if Claude ran out in the middle of the night to check on his communicator contraption or not. They were both up and ready at the break of dawn; it had been a long time since he'd been around anyone at this early in the morning, and there was no conversation to speak of.

En route down the corridor, they were just past the main reception area when Dias paused, then quickly took several steps backwards before turning around completely and heading for the side door to the inn's stables. He was really in no mood to face more of Rachel's antics.

"What are you doing?" Claude asked.

"I'm going to check on the horses," he replied, ducking outside. "Go have breakfast. Have fun."

"Uh ... okay," Claude replied uncertainly.

Behind him, Dias could easily pick up the clanking and clattering of dishes as breakfast was being prepared with undue loudness. "Why, _good morning_, Claude!" Rachel exclaimed with great enthusiasm and volume, clearly waiting for the moment the said person stepped into the room. "My, you're _early! _I didn't hear you coming in _at all!_ So tell Aunt Rachel, _how was it?_ Your _special_ night at the Kingdom Hotel?"

"Oh, I slept very well, thank you," he could hear Claude say.

"... Ah … that's not what I was asking about …"

Dias shook his head. The things he had to put up with. Thankfully, the rest of the conversation droned down, fading away into incoherence as he put more distance between himself and the kitchen. He busied himself again, checking the horses, brushing their coats and making sure they were in as good condition as their riders, if not better.

He was several minutes into this routine when he heard a muffled thudding, like the sound of racing, stumbling footfalls, followed by the easily recognizable screech of chairs being pushed back. Frowning, he quickly completed his task and headed for the side door.

Even before he reached the dining area, he could hear a woman's muted sobs. Through the window of the doorframe, he could see Rachel leaning over the small kitchen table, Claude seated in one of two chairs that were pulled alongside it. Both of their attentions were focused completely on a third person in the remaining chair.

And in that other chair was another blue-haired woman he hadn't seen for a long time.

"Westa, what are you doing in Cross?" he said.

Westa looked up. "Dias?" she cried.

Dias stifled his shock. "What happened to you?"

She looked, simply and plainly put, terrible. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she was nursing a number of bruises on her face, in particular a large, ugly, purple-veined one on her left cheek. One hand held a compress against her face, and every so often she would wince slightly. Rachel squeezed her shoulder, then left the table and began rummaging in the cupboards.

"Rena is in danger," Westa blurted, then broke down in tears. Claude quickly handed her a handkerchief from the table. "Th-thank you," she said, taking it. He patted her shoulder consolingly.

Dias knelt down beside her. "Tell me exactly what happened."

She wept into the kerchief. "Alen- Alen has gone _mad …!"_

Dias knit his brows together. "_Alen _did this?"

It was difficult not to be incredulous. Even as children, Alen had easily been the most timid of any of them. Free-spirited Cecille and spunky Rena, despite being younger than him, were both far more vocal and adventurous. Picturing the man lashing out in any way ... it wasn't hard. It simply didn't happen.

Or so it had seemed.

"Who's this Alen?" Claude asked.

"Alen-Tax Barnes is the son of the mayor of Salva," Rachel explained to him as she poured out some tea. "My sister and I have known him since he was but a baby in swaddling clothes. He was very enamoured of Rena; it was quite charming. But he was always such a shy, gentle child … usually ill with whatever sickness was in season, but very quiet and polite. For him to do something like this …" She shook her head. "I simply cannot comprehend it!"

Westa nodded. "I know- it's so hard to believe …" She dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief, trying to compose herself. "He hadn't been to Arlia in over a week. When he next visited, he had a group of armed men with him. I … I tried to stop them, but-" She gestured at her face helplessly. "They … they forced Rena into a carriage and left for Salva."

"And then what happened?"

She trembled. "No one knew what to do; we were all too afraid."

"Mister Barnes – he's the mayor of Salva – is very wealthy, and powerful," Rachel said for Claude's benefit. "They own the gem mines there, the Drift, you know. He and his family were always kind people. But my word ... clearly you can never know …!"

"Mayor Barnes is away," Westa said, looking down at her hands. "I borrowed Mister Hearn's horse," she continued, sniffling. "I-I tried to see the king- to ask him to send help- but the castle staff said he is occupied and won't be seeing any audiences for a while."

She twisted and tugged the kerchief in her hands. "They-they wouldn't even look at my letter from Mayor Regis-!" She sobbed. "I don't know what else to do- My daughter- my poor Rena …!"

_Even if you had been able to see the king, _Dias thought privately, _there isn't much he would have been able to do, given the current state of affairs. _Out loud, he said, "I'm heading for Salva."

"Thank the heavens," Rachel exclaimed.

"Oh, no," Westa cried, half-rising from her seat. "I couldn't ask that of you. It's too dangerous- all the brigands-"

"And how dangerous was it for you to travel to the castle by yourself?" he replied, quietly.

She shook her head. "I had to."

"What do you think I've been doing for the past ten years?" he said.

She shook her head again, but said nothing.

"Rachel," he said, getting back up, "Take care of Westa, and make sure she doesn't return to Arlia alone."

"Bless you, Dias," Rachel said, as he turned to head for the stables.

He heard the scraping of a chair behind him. "Wait," Claude said.

Dias glanced quickly over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. "And make sure _he_ has somewhere to stay until I get back."

"Not to worry, my dear!" Rachel replied, with far more cheer than necessary.

Moments later, he was on one knee at Cynic's side, tightening the saddle. He had just started when he heard the side door open and shut, followed by the soft sound of footfalls, and the now-familiar voice.

"I said wait," Claude said, sounding irritated.

Dias didn't look up. "What do you want?"

"Alen and Rena," the youth replied, ignoring his question. "They're friends of yours?"

"We grew up together." He gave the belts a quick tug to test, then mounted.

"I see," Claude said. Dias looked down and saw that the youth was at Windsock's side, repeating the mercenary's preparations on the mare.

Dias arched an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

The youth braced one foot in the stirrup against the side of his steed, and mounted. It was hardly the most graceful thing Dias had ever seen, but he managed to accomplish it with greater agility and accuracy than expected, especially considering his previous performances. Claude settled into the saddle, his expression giving away his relief at achieving his goal without falling off and dangling sideways. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Mounting poorly."

Claude exhaled in frustration. "Coming with you, obviously."

_I don't have time for this._ Dias looked at him, frowning. "Go back. Rachel will take care of you."

"Right," returned Claude, turning Windsocks around and guiding her alongside the gelding. "Unfortunately for Rachel, I told her I wasn't going to be staying in the little honeymoon suite."

Dias blinked. "What?"

"Or maybe it should be fortunately, since she was remarkably enthusiastic about my following you." Claude rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I'd rather not. And that's not the only reason why."

The mercenary raised an eyebrow. "I give my word I'll return after I finish with this business in Salva. This isn't your concern."

"That's not what I meant," Claude replied, reins tight in his hand. "And it is. My concern, I mean. Rena sounds like she's in a lot of trouble; her mom's worried sick. Plus, you saved my hide, back at the bandits' hideout, and it's my fault you went totally off track."

"That's -"

"Besides, you really think I'm going to sit and wring my hands in a hotel room until you get back?"

Dias gazed at the other man for several moments, considering everything. Claude returned his stare evenly, unwavering.

Cynic tamped the ground impatiently. _Time is a-wasting._

Despite his better judgment, he gave in. In a fashion.

"Do as you like." The mercenary turned away. "Just don't slow me down."

"I _won't."_

* * *

Author's Notes: OMG FINALLY, we're heading into the action! Hooray! Uhhhhh ... when did I start this again??? I can't believe it's already been THREE YEARS _(clarification: since I first started the fic, not since I posted chapter four, lol. That was a few months)._ You are very, very patient people indeed. Hope you guys don't mind my wordy Author's Notes (by all means ignore them if you like XD;). I always like reading background materials and finding out how something was made/developed, so I thought it was only fair to share my process and thoughts here (although most of it is really just me whining, sorry!).

I want to say, again, thank you to everyone who is following this; it means a lot. Whenever I get discouraged with how slow it's going, I reread the reviews and it makes me feel "Yeah, I can do it! I can write this fic!! It's not completely stupid!!" and I manage to churn out a few more paragraphs and tweak/refine a bit more writing before "real life" (aka work etc.) kicks in and/or I sputter off again. I'm lame like that. But I also want to add that I really enjoy reading the comments where people try to extrapolate scenarios from what they've already read. The fact is that I began If/Then with no clue about where this fic will "ultimately" lead. Probably not the best way to go about starting and posting pieces, but there you have it. As I touched on in my Author's Notes in chapter 1, the entire plot is pretty much comprised of my setting up a what-if scenario angled against the original game story, and then figuring out how everything else might proceed from a purely logical perspective. Like dominos. Hence the title If/Then, taken from the concept of Boolean operators. I do have lots of scenes planned out well into the future and in fact have a number of in-progress chapters running simultaneously (I have lots of bad habits!) and getting edited on the fly as I get closer to those points and resolve various technical issues. (Another bad habit of mine: getting bogged down/obsessed with details. It's so hard to find a decent balance.)

Thus, I hope no one gets the wrong impression from this chapter; I like Celine! But this sort of confrontational outcome made the most sense to me from the very beginning. Apologies to Celine fans; but don't worry, you know you haven't seen the last of her.

Sort-of-minor in comparison to the game but-not-really if considering a real timeline ... I moved the bludgeoning of Dias' family back eight years. Why? Because it's always struck me as being completely ludicrous that it only took him two years to go from a 23-year old mediocrity to suddenly becoming a world-renowned master swordsman at the age of 25. The staggered timeline hinted at in the manga (and actually clearly depicted in the anime, as much as I dislike the anime), where their deaths occurred when Dias was much younger, made a lot more sense to me. The Tournament of Arms is another victim of my timeshifting. It is an annual event in the game, but I changed it to every five years just to make it more realistic and epic. It's not baseball season, alright? In the previous chapter the king referred to this year as "The Year of the Arms" which gives it a more impressive feel, I think so anyways XD

And speaking of ridiculous, what was up with Claude wandering around Expel for so long in those clothes that supposedly screamed "HAY GUYZ! I'M FROM AN ALIEN WORLD!"?? Again, never made any sense to me (then again, some of the Expellians dressed like they came from Federation planets, so whatever ...) His new clothes in this chapter are based on the designs I did for my other project, The Wend (images can be seen on my Wend LJ or in my website/deviantART account, linked from my profile).

Regarding Aunt Rachel: I apologize. I couldn't resist. In case you haven't noticed, I love background characters, and from this chapter onwards you'll likely be seeing quite a few NPCs being fleshed out, like our dear Aunt. She always cracked me up in the game with her out-of-context assumptions. I hope it wasn't too big of a groaner, and that you can forgive me :P


	7. SIX haruspex: the rescue

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

**SIX**

**haruspex (the rescue)**

**

* * *

**

"You don' _look_ like miners," said the man, eyeing the cloaked riders on their horses. "You don' look like locals either." He adjusted the heavy pack of tools slung over his shoulder and coughed thickly, turning his head away and spitting on the ground.

"That's probably because we're not," Claude replied.

"If youse ain't miners, you don' have a business to be in Salva," the miner responded. "And if youse _are,_ yous'd leave as well. There hain't been any work since the earthquake."

He coughed again, and continued walking past them, out towards the edge of the town.

Claude shifted Windsocks ahead several steps closer to Cynic, and looked back at the stranger. "What's the friendly man talking about?"

Dias watched the miner from over his shoulder. "Salva isn't known for earthquakes. There _are_ sometimes cave-ins, usually from mining activity." He frowned. "The gem mines are the lifesblood of Salva. If there's been a cave-in, they need to rebuild the underground structures in the Drift. Otherwise, this place will dry up and die."

Claude scratched his cheek. "He doesn't look like he's about to do any rebuilding," he said.

"No, he doesn't." Dias turned back to the village heart ahead of them. "Either this 'earthquake' was particularly devastating, or it was something else."

"Like the fact that the Barnes family owns the mines," Claude ventured.

Dias felt inclined to agree.

They dismounted at the travelers' stop. Dias frowned again. There were no other animals.

"It really is kind of dead around here, isn't it?" Claude commented, as they tied the horses to a hitching post near several feeding troughs.

As if on cue, a man and a woman came into view from around the corner of one of the houses. Their manner reminded Dias of skittish, overly-sensitive animals. Upon realizing the presence of the two men, Dias noticed that their gaze fell lower, to the swords at their waists, and they immediately turned their heads to avoid any eye contact whatsoever.

"Excuse me," Claude said, hailing them with a slight arm motion, and starting towards them.

The couple looked up and around briefly, as if trying to find some other person he might have been addressing, and when it was clear that there couldn't possibly be anyone aside from them, mild panic set in on their faces.

"Would you happen to know anyth-" Claude began.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," said the man, still not meeting their eyes, and he quickly wrapped one arm around the woman's shoulder, making an abrupt about-face to retrace their steps.

Claude stopped. "Wow," he said, staring after the retreating couple. "And here I thought we couldn't get a nicer welcome than the one we just had."

"Don't bother," Dias said. "There's a man named Eduardo who tends to be quite knowledgeable about the most recent goings-on. He'll probably be at the Rough."

At his companion's blank expression, he added, "It's a well-known bar in Salva."

"... Right," Claude replied, nodding. "I'll pretend I know what you're talking about."

"It used to have another name some time ago," Dias noted. "But I suppose they felt 'Seven Dwarfs' didn't quite present the right impression."

Claude raised an eyebrow. "Are you pulling my leg?" he asked.

Dias paused. "Am I what?"

"I mean, are you joking?"

The mercenary looked at him. "Why would I be?"

Claude scratched his head. "Uh, the mining town and all ..."

"I don't follow," Dias said, irritated.

The youth's gaze shifted to the side. "Never mind."

The owner of the Rough and Tumble was wiping down the counter with a rag when they entered. He glanced up as they approached and adjusted his rolled-up sleeves.

"Welcome, travelers," he greeted them, but the inflection in his voice was barely even half-hearted. "You look like you're brooding over something. How about a drink to pick you up?"

"We'll pass," Dias answered. The man didn't seem to recognize him; well, it had been a while since he was last in Salva anyways, and that was probably for the best.

"A'ight," the man answered, making no further effort to engage them. He rearranged some bottles and mugs, then continued working the rag on the bar.

"Is Eduardo here?" Claude asked, looking around.

Dias scanned the room quickly. "Don't see him," he replied. He'd work with what was available, then. He sat down at the bar and nodded to the bartender. "You look rather glum yourself," the mercenary noted. "How is business?"

The bartender sighed, wiped his hands with the cloth and leaned against the counter; his body language was completely that of a man just about ready to throw his hands in the air, pack it all up, and leave. His words came out in a flood of resignation. "I can't be anything but brutally honest: this place is really starting to die. It picked up about a month or so ago when the Drift first closed. That usually happens when the mines suffer a temporary closure; the workers sit around waiting in intervals until the structure is patched up again. But this time ..." He shook his head. "Time keeps passing and things keep getting worse. It's started to dam right up. No mining, no gems, no visitors. Still have a few dedicated customers around here, but ..."

"Why wouldn't they allow anyone in?" Claude asked. "I thought keeping the mines up and running was key to Salva's existence."

"We all thought so too," the man replied. He pointed over at a sprawled figure, passed out in the far corner of the bar. "See that man over there? He came all the way from Linga to work in the mines. But nobody's been allowed in the Drift, not even for restorative work. He's only here because he's got nowhere else to go. Sad."

"I'm not from around here," Claude said, "but even just coming in, it did seem pretty quiet for a mining town."

"It's the damn brigands," said a rough voice.

The two men half-turned; the speaker was a miner sitting at a table behind them. His face was leathery and lined, and he gripped a drinking cup in one hand, his tools of the trade in a worn sack at his feet.

"Once you get closer to the manor," the man continued, "you'll find a lot of riffraff hired by the mayor's son. And armed to the teeth with blades, every one of them."

"Why would he do that?" Claude asked.

"Who knows?" the miner replied, taking a drink. "It's none of my business."

The bartender nodded. "Tria knows what's going on in Alen-Tax's head. People are afraid to leave their homes now, especially not since he kidnapped that poor girl from the neighbouring village."

The miner snorted. "I don't care. I just want to work. The life of one girl is none of my concern."

Claude frowned.

"I've heard about it. I understand that's quite out of character for the man," Dias remarked.

"Right you are," the bartender agreed. "I was pretty reluctant to believe it myself, 'till I heard it straight from the manorfolk." He sighed. "You know, for a gem mining town, Salva was always a real peaceful, straightforward kind of place. People worked hard, appreciated what they got out of it. We always used to have lots of travelers, especially ones who wanted to see the famed baubles that come out of these mines, but never any real trouble. Until now, that is."

Dias leaned slightly against the counter. "Did anything else remarkable happen before the earthquake?"

The barowner placed his hands on his hips, considering. "Let's see now ... there were a few things. They were celebrating a couple of large finds in a new section of the mines. Word was that some real valuable gems were picked up in those initial hauls. I heard there was this one beauty of a stone worth tens of thousands of fol, and word was maybe the Barnes boy might use it for a fancy proposal. Everyone knows he's been sweet on that Arlian girl for ages." He shook his head. "A real shame it turned out the way it did."

"I heard the Mayor is away," Dias said. "When did that happen?"

"Oh, sometime after the first lode was uncovered. Tria's word, I can't imagine what's going to happen once he returns. We're all praying it'll be soon." He laughed humourlessly. "I remember I was talking to a carpenter just before the earthquake who was hired to do some work on the mansion. I remember saying he should have it easy, that it was good that old man Barnes didn't stay to oversee the construction personally, since he's such a stickler for the details, but-"

He scratched his head, bemused. "Come to think of it, I haven't really seen anything done on the building at all. I wonder what happened to him."

The barowner frowned. "And another funny thing. Now, I know Cross Kingdom is being hit with its share of earthquakes, and far be it for me to think Salva is beyond the reach of the Sorcery Globe, but ... with the strongest cave-ins, and the bar pretty close to the mines, I usually feel something. Don't recall a thing with this last one, though."

The barowner sighed, shrugged, and then started to wipe down the counter again. "But what can you do?"

Claude's brow furrowed slightly.

"I see your expression there," the bartender said. "I know what you're thinking. But really. What am I going to do? What Alen-Tax is doing, it's beyond us. The Barnes family practically owns the whole town. You can't think there won't be any repercussions. And besides, how can I fight a group of armed thugs?"

"But there must be ... some way," Claude said. "It's your livelihood, isn't it?"

The bartender shrugged helplessly.

The miner shrugged as well. "I don't care. Like I said, I just want to start working again, and soon. All this has nothing to do with me."

Claude suddenly pushed back his seat from the bar and stood up. "On the contrary," he snapped. "It has everything to do with you."

The remaining few patrons in the bar were staring obliquely in their direction. The man looked up, startled. "What?"

"Think about it," Claude demanded. "I don't know this Alen-Tax, but he pretty much sounds like he's gone mad. Whatever it is, so long as the Mayor's away, it's pretty clear he's not going to let go of any kind of control and let anyone back in there. If you care about your job so goddamn much, you need to wake up and realize you should be trying to figure things out and actually _do _something about this, instead of sitting on your ass and blowing what's left of your money on turning yourself into a drunken mess. Acting like nothing in this world affects you isn't going to give you your damn job back. It's already been this long. How long are you going to rely on waiting for somebody who may or may not come back in time?"

Dias inclined his head slightly towards the shadows of the barroom, hiding his half-smile.

The man's eyes widened and he set his drinking glass down on the table, raising his other hand palm up. "Look, I don't want any kind of trouble with you people, alright? I'm an old man with a family; I ain't got the power to do anything. I'm just an old man with mouths to feed."

"Now look here, you two," the bartender objected. "I've got little enough business as it is."

"Sorry." Claude turned to Dias. "I guess I'd better wait outside," he said to the mercenary, disgust in his voice, and turned to leave.

Dias shrugged and got up to follow him.

"Crazy louts," the miner mumbled under his breath. "Can't even enjoy a drink without getting hassled …!"

"Good job at not attracting attention," Dias commented as they headed for the door.

"Nobody here really knows what's going on and they're all too self-centred or scared to do anything," Claude grumbled.

"I agree," Dias replied. "But the fact is: this is a world of uncertainty, and mining itself is a dangerous occupation. They _do _have their own livelihoods to think about, and they _are _thinking about it. Even if only in a short-sighted way."

"I know, I know," Claude said. He sighed, brushed the bangs out of his eyes with one hand. "It's just, the way that guy was talking - that really pisses me off. I couldn't help myself."

Dias raised an eyebrow. "Try to, in the future."

"I will," he sighed again. "Sorry. I can't stand it; they're so set on stalemating themselves to death in there, when it's still probably early enough to do something about it."

"I say 'dere," came a wavery voice from their left, followed by a hic and a belch. "Whoo! 'Dat's some strong stuff."

Dias paused, then smiled vaguely at the short, bent over figure making his way towards them. _Eduardo. _"I should have known."

"Damn right you should 'ave!" The old man rattled his cup at them, then wobbled past them, intent on a table. An ill-fitting hat was perched precariously over one brow, creating a distinctive frame against the wrinkled, well-worn face. "I should be downright insulted, you lookin' fer tips anywhere else."

As Dias made his way after the old man, he heard Claude mutter under his breath, "Another wasted drunk?"

Eduardo heaved himself into the chair, a lopsided expression of smugness on his face. "Hey now," he wheezed. "I dun' mind being called a drunkard, but merely _another? _Young man, I'll trust you ta' treat yer elders wit' a bit more respect 'dan '_dat!"_ He slammed the cup down on the table, more for show than actual effect. The contents sloshed over the brim, splashing lightly.

"Don't be causing any trouble now," the barowner called from behind them.

"You know I'm good," the old man said, waving flippantly. The owner sighed, shook his head, and continued with his chores.

"Eduardo claims to be the finest drunkard in Salva," Dias informed Claude, pulling up a chair and sitting down as he spoke. He tilted his head in the direction of the fellow in question. "He seems tipsy but is surprisingly well-stocked with not only liquor, but also information. A worthwhile contact."

"Hear hear," said the old man, raising his cup to toast the empty air. He belched again.

Claude looked from the drinker to the mercenary, and back again. "Sorry," he said, sitting down with a sheepish, if somewhat dubious, smile. "It just seemed like everybody here is ignorant and not working very hard to change the fact."

"Noddaaporblem," Eduardo slurred understandingly, taking another chug of his ale. "Sometimes it's safer, ya know? Wanna drink?" he added, shoving his cup inches away from Claude's nose.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Claude replied, gently pushing the proffered cup away.

"We heard a lot of miners complaining that the Drift is closed due to an earthquake," Dias said.

"Hah!" Eduardo laughed harshly and slapped his thigh, splashing a quarter of his drink all over his pants. Claude leaned backwards slightly. "So obvious! 'Dey say 'dat 'da mine wuz closed 'cause of a cave-in … the truth is different … Really, Alen …" The old man shook his head, and downed another gulp.

Dias exchanged a glance with Claude.

Eduardo hiccupped noisily, and waggled a finger at the air, mumbling some incoherent syllables before imbibing again. He rocked forwards, then back, and looked around. "… Whoo. Wha? Where wuz I?"

"You were saying, about Alen?" Dias reminded him.

"Ah, Alen," Eduardo chuckled again. "'Dat mad Barnes boy. He 'been acting real strange lately. I tell you somethin' funny, fer sure." He crooked a bony finger at them, gestering them to come close. Dias and Claude leaned in.

"Apparen'dlee …" he began, and trailed off. The two men leaned in further.

"… He built some strange altar in 'da back of 'da Drift …!" The old man laughed loudly, showering his listeners with spittle.

Dias sighed inwardly. Such was the price of dealing with people. Even competent ones. Sometimes _especially_ the competent ones.

"An altar?" Claude said, grimacing and wiping at his face. "What the heck is he going to do with it?"

"Idunno," replied Eduardo, knocking back another shot. He held the cup angled towards him, eyeing its contents critically. "But …"

The two men looked at him expectantly.

"… 'Dat's all fer today," he finished.

"That's it?" said Claude.

Eduardo spread his hands wide, the remaining bit of ale sloshing to the ground "What? Can't drink all 'da time, ya know!"

"Thanks, Eduardo," Dias said. "We'll see you around."

The old man acknowledged his farewell with a tip of his hat. "Buh-bye," he replied.

Outside the bar, Claude shook his head, wafting one hand in front of his face. "Man ..."

"It's a bar," Dias said.

"No _way,"_ the younger man responded dryly. "Nice guy, though." He nodded. "And, as you said, a worthwhile contact. But I think I'm going to pray for his liver." He braced both hands against the fence, leaning back against it, and looked over at the mercenary. "Are you sure Eduardo is right?"

"He always has been."

"How does he know, anyways?"

Dias shrugged. "He's the village drunk. Perhaps people don't think anything when he's nearby."

"Ohh-kay. So now what?"

"Put together the story," Dias replied. "First, they hit a motherlode of gems. Everybody's happy. Barnes goes away on a business trip with extra funds to spare, all the while thinking the Drift is in good condition and in good hands. And then comes the carpenter."

"Okay," Claude nodded. "So ... as soon as he's gone, then the son hires a carpenter to build an altar in the Drift, who the heck knows why, but tells everyone that an earthquake closed the mines to hide the construction. And he apparently hires a bunch of goons so that no one can get in, and they kidnap Westa's daughter. But ... why?" He frowned.

Dias furrowed his brow. "It doesn't make any sense."

Claude shrugged and folded his arms. "He really wanted to marry her, I guess."

"Clearly," Dias replied. "But it's completely out of character."

"Maybe she turned him down, and he did go crazy," Claude suggested. He paused, then looked up at Dias. "Ah, sorry - I know he's your childhood friend."

"No," Dias replied, deep in thought.

Claude looked confused. "But in Cross, you said-"

Dias shook his head. "No - nobody's said a word about a proposal actually having taken place, and those - especially the failures - are the fastest kinds of gossip to go around. He was already planning this. He didn't kidnap her until _after_ the altar was built." He started walking away even before finishing his sentence. "We'd best get to the mansion."

Claude hurried after him. "But the people he hired-"

"Are going to be extremely sorry they became involved in this," Dias replied.

Claude looked mildly dubious, but he noted that the youth followed him without a word. As they made their way towards the mansion, he noted how empty the streets were, and how many homes had seemingly shuttered their windows and barricaded their doors. _Salva almost looks like a ghost town_, he thought.

There was a scream.

The two men stopped. They were on one side of a short alleyway, one of the thin spaces between houses, and could see the backs of a trio of men on the other end. Their waists were lined with fat beltbags that rattled and jingled as they moved - purses most likely filled with stolen treasures.

A slight slip of a girl, freckle-faced and out of breath, her pink hair tied in pigtails, struggled in between the men. An overturned basket lay near them, squashed strawberries and apples scattered on the ground.

"Come on, miss," one of them sneered. "Why the noise? No one's going to come anyways."

"Besides, ladies shouldn't be wanderin' 'round this time of the day by themselves," another mocked. The maiden whimpered.

"Not much to look at, are you?" said the third, the one with his grip on her arm. "Now, maybe without that dress-" The other two laughed crudely.

"P-please," she pleaded. "I had to go pick s-some fruit; I couldn't wait any longer. If it may please you, sirs, I would be- I would be glad to bring you some of my jams-"

The brigand reached over and violently ripped off one of her hair ribbons. She screamed again.

"Now, why would we want to do that, when we could have something better?" he jeered.

Claude wasted no time, crossing the brief distance between the two groups and striding straight up to the man holding the girl's arm.

"Hey, you asshole," he said to the man's back.

The brigand turned around, just in time for his face to meet the other man's fist with a loud crunch. The maiden shrieked, her hands to her mouth, then quickly darted around behind Claude, shaking.

"Garl!" one bandit cried out as the man fell to the ground, screeching bloody murder and clutching at his nose. His bursting waist pouches did just that, spilling much of their contents and sending them clattering around him.

"You little worm-" the other bandit snarled. He and the remaining standing ruffian drew their swords, then did a doubletake upon meeting Claude's angry glare. _"You're-"_

"We're what?" Dias said, drawing his sword. The younger man did likewise.

The two thieves hesitated, blades wavering unsteadily in the air. There was a groan from their feet, and one of the men cursed, bending over and quickly dragging the fallen brigand up.

"You'll regret the kind of hell you've brought on yourselves! Yer messing with Alen-Tax!" he shrieked, and the three of them ran off.

Claude sheathed his sword. "Uh, your basket," he said to the girl, beginning to bend down to retrieve the fruit amongst the spilled contents of the brigand's purse.

Suddenly, he halted in his motion.

"Hey," he exclaimed quietly, at a volume almost too low to hear. "Heyyy." The young man knelt down slowly, sifting through the baubles on the ground. "You gotta be kidding me. I don't believe it."

"What?" Dias asked, sheathing his sword.

Claude got up. He was grinning from ear to ear. "I think," he said, "I found my sanity." He held up a silvery-white contraption in his hand.

Dias took in the alien appearance of the strange gadget. It looked like a gleaming sculpture, all carved or moulded somehow in one piece. It had a handle of a sort, a slightly curved hilt that fit smoothly into the palm of a closed hand, the faint outlines of odd bars and rivets of some sort marking its side.

_This must be his phase gun,_ he realized. And the trio were likely the three missing bandits from the hideout - just happened to be caught up in Alen's henchmen-hiring frenzy. Of all the coincidences in the world ...

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he replied bluntly. The younger man laughed at the unimpressed tone of his voice.

"Ah," said the maiden from behind them.

Claude quickly tucked the hand with the phase gun beneath his cloak. "Are you alright?"

She picked up her hair ribbon, her hands still shaking slightly. "I-I am safe, thanks to you, kind sirs."

"Let's go," Dias said, already on the move again. "They went off in the direction of the manor."

Claude followed. The girl, to his surprise, did as well.

"Are you friends of Miss Rena?" she asked, barely keeping pace.

Claude glanced back at her, surprised. "Do you know her?"

"She and her mother used to buy jams from my shop whenever they were in Salva," she said. "I saw the carriage when Mayor Barnes' son brought her back from Arlia. It was horrible."

"You saw them?" Dias asked sharply, halting and causing Claude to skid to a stop to avoid colliding into him.

"Y-yes," she nodded, panting, her hand against her chest. '"I ... would have never thought that Alen would be the type of person to do such a horrid thing. I suppose you truly cannot judge a book by its cover." She paused. "And I don't know but ... there was something terrifying about his eyes." She shivered at the thought. "They were almost glowing, like a demon's."

Dias and Claude exchanged looks. "Glowing eyes?" Claude exclaimed, almost incredulously.

She looked mildly affronted. "Good sir! I only tell you what I saw with my own eyes." She closed her eyes and sighed. "Poor girl ... I wonder what will happen to her? This would be a good time for the Warrior to appear. Maybe there is no Warrior."

"There sure isn't going to be a Warrior to save you now," a gruff voice snarled.

The girl blanched.

The stately manor and its outer wall, built to resemble a miniature castle's exterior ramparts, rose behind a large group of armed brigands. Scanning quickly, Dias counted at least ten ruffians just in their direct, slightly uphill path to the mansion's double doors.

"Oh ..." he heard the girl whisper, her voice trembling even in that mere syllable.

"I think," Claude said to her, "you should go now."

"Y-yes," she replied, but didn't move. He could practically hear her legs shaking.

Dias cursed at this slowdown and drew his sword. Mentally, rapidly, he considered the numbers and odds and decided they were just fine. Any ordinary peasant could see it wasn't a logical risk to take, but for him they were just another group of stupid, pathetic, cowardly bandits. He'd cut them down in bloody, uncaring swaths, whoever was standing in his way. His hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his blade, the sword about to fly from its sheath-

"Screw it," muttered a voice from behind him. Before he could respond, Claude stepped between him and the bandits, drawing something from inside his cloak as he did so.

The sword paused in middraw. "What are you-" Dias started, before realizing it was the phase gun.

Claude gave the device a quick twist and wrench with two flicks of his wrist, then leveled it at the heads of the bandits standing between them and the distant, barricaded door.

"Get the hell out of our way," Claude said, his gaze hard and unblinking.

"What are you doing?" Dias muttered again, too low for the others to hear.

Claude half-turned his head to acknowledge the question. "Just wait," he replied out of the side of his mouth.

The brigands guffawed. "What can the brat-prince of Cross do about it?"

"I've got news for you," Claude snapped, refocusing his entire attention on the other men. "I'm not the Prince."

"Is that so," said one of the bandits. "And what should happen if we don't move out of your way, Your Highness?"

"Your grave," Claude replied flatly. "You've got three seconds to think about it." His hand moved ever so slightly; the motion was so minor Dias almost missed it. "One."

There was a strange buzzing/humming sound that rapidly grew in pitch and intensity. The air seemed to heat around the device. Three flashing red lights tracked their way around its edge, speeding in time with the sound. The bandits exchanged quick, uncertain glances.

"Two-"

The sudden beam - _no, blaze _- of light was so bright it nearly blinded him. A lightning bolt, but with a completely alien sound, like air itself being rent in half. The noise filled his ears, together with the startled screams and hollers of the bandits.

And as quickly as the light and sound had swarmed his senses, it was over.

Dots and bursts of coloured light flittered faintly in his vision. Dias blinked hard, shook his head to clear the afterimages, then stared.

The entire door, not to mention some of the surrounding work of the building - wood, frame and all - had been blasted open like a butchered animal with its guts splayed around the inside and outside of the mansion's front structure. A handful of bandits lay sprawled on either side of the path, alive and in one piece, but not likely to be jumping to their feet any time soon.

The jam shop girl mutely sank to the ground in shock, eyes wide as saucers.

He took a slow step forward. The words echoed in his mind's ear.

_Light _… _Bearing a Sword of Light …_

"... three?" said a small voice from his left. He turned to find himself looking at Claude.

The younger man blinked, then grabbed at Dias' arm. "Come on!" he said. "Let's go!"

"What was that?" Dias asked as they ran towards the entrance.

"It seems-" Claude replied breathlessly, fiddling with the phase gun. "-it seems to be malfunctioning."

"What?"

"I set it to stun," Claude explained, which of course explained nothing to Dias. "Or - at least - I _thought_ I did. But even if I didn't, it's not supposed to fire like a freaking cannon!" He half-slapped, half-shoved the weapon against his waist as though trying to slide it back into some invisible sheath at his side. "Argh_,_ I forgot these aren't my pants. Damn it!"

They were crossing what used to be the threshold, entering the foyer, when a familiar, wavering voice called out. "Master Flac? Tria's eyes, is that you, Master Flac?"

The Barnes' elderly butler, Piet, was on the floor, while Olaf, the heavyset cook, was braced against the wall next to him. The housekeep Glenys was there as well, clinging to the railings of the staircase.

"Oh, thank the heavens it _is_ you, Master Flac," the butler said with relief. "What in the name of Tria just happened? What was that terrible explosion? And that bright light?"

"Crap." Claude dashed over to the servants, helping them up. "I am so sorry. Are you okay?"

"Whatever are you sorry for, young man?" the old man replied, confusion clouding his face. "Did we have an earthquake?"

"There's no time to explain," Dias said. "Where's Rena?"

"I was here when Miss Rena was brought into the mansion," the cook said. "But I haven't seen any signs of her recently."

"What Olaf says is true for all of us. But she has not left the mansion, that I can tell you," said the butler.

"She _was _locked in one of the rooms on the second floor," the maid added, joining them at the foot of the stairs. "But she's no longer there. The door is open and I was just in there myself, just before the - that ... thing."

Dias looked around at the trio of servants, and frowned. "Where are the rest of the manorfolk?"

"We are the only ones who remain," the butler said. "We have served our Lord Barnes for many a year and would not leave as readily as the others, not even with the addition of those ... ruffians."

"If I may, Master Flac," Olaf said.

"Out with it," Dias answered impatiently. "Forget your formalities."

"Master Alen's chambers," the chef suggested. "Perhaps there is something there. No one has been permitted in the room for weeks, not even Glenys."

The matronly housekeep nodded in confirmation. Dias immediately headed for the staircase, the others following as closely behind as they were able.

Upstairs, Dias grabbed the handle of the door and pushed, but it would not budge. He paused. "Is Alen in there?"

"I can guarantee you he is not," Glenys said.

"I-I am sorry," the butler huffed, trying to catch his breath from his attempt at matching their speed up the stairs. "I do not ... I do not have ... a key ..."

"Stand back," Dias commanded. As soon as they had moved aside, he kicked sharply at the lock, once, twice. He glanced over at Claude, and the other nodded. "One, two, _three-!"_

They charged, slamming against the door at an angle with their shoulders, throwing their combined weight behind the impact. On the third slam, the door gave way. Dias pulled back and steadied himself as it fell inwards. Claude, meanwhile, stumbled forward with a "who_aa!"_, landing face down on the fallen door.

"Ow," he muttered, then looked up.

They all stared. The entire room had been shredded to pieces.

Strips of wood, fabric, fine linens from the bed and the curtains, feathers from pillows, all of it lined the floor in thick, unkempt piles. Several feathers floated lightly in the air, disturbed by the draft caused from the battering of the door.

But the most chilling sight were the walls. A single word had been crudely scratched countless times until not an inch of the room had been left uncovered.

_RENA_, it read, over and over. _RENA RENA RENA RENA RENA RENA RENA RENA ..._

"Holy ..." said Claude quietly, staring around at the walls as he slowly picked himself up.

The manorfolk stepped into the room in silent shock. "It ... is like ... a _demon_ has been living in here," Piet whispered, stunned. The old butler walked slowly into the center of the chamber. "Master Alen ... what has happened to you ...?"

"Master Flac ..." Glenys said. She stood in a far corner of the room, hefting up what appeared to be a large, flat panel of wood. "Look at this ..."

They quickly gathered around to examine the housekeep's discovery. The panel turned out to be a canvas adorned with a portrait. A blue-tressed girl with distinctive, long ears, her hair kept in place on one side by a small crescent hairpin, smiled out from the painting. It would have been quite a pretty piece of art, had it not been covered by numerous thick, coagulated slashes of brownish-red.

_Rena._

"... is that blood?" Olaf whispered. The butler moaned.

"I knew it," the maid exclaimed. She threw the painting on the floor. "I knew it! That stone that the Young Master had found ... it was a cursed stone ...!"

"The stone?" Claude asked.

The housekeep shook her head, close to tears. "There was a beautiful gem that had been uncovered in the mines, just before the Lord went away ... The Young Master took it, and I saw him staring at it, polishing it all the time." She covered her face with both hands. "As if it had possessed him!"

Piet looked startled. "I remember that stone! It was like nothing anyone had ever seen before. Master Alen told me he was hoping to have it set in a ring for Miss Rena. But he ended up always keeping it with him."

Olaf leaned forward, gesturing wildly. "Yes, yes! After the Lord left, after that stone, Master Alen changed so much! He began to eat less and less, and he would hole himself up in the study for days!"

"The study," Dias said, and raced out of the room.

He frowned at the sight that greeted him downstairs. Aside from some books and other objects that must have fallen out of place in the wake of the Sword of Li- _no, the phase gun's - _blast, nothing seemed amiss.

The others found him cursing in frustration when they caught up with him. "Where in Tria's name did he hide her?"

"What's that?" Claude asked, pointing to something near a desk leg.

A small piece of gold lay embedded in the rug, glinting faintly in the study light. It was barely discernable against the patterns of the floor covering. Dias bent down to get a closer look.

It was in the shape of a crescent moon.

"Rena's hairpin," he said, scooping the bauble up. "She was in here." He looked around, then strode purposefully to an empty wall and started slamming the side of his fist against it, quickly working his way around the perimeter of the room. When he got to the other side, he began sweeping his arm into the space behind the books, hurling tomes to the ground, emptying the shelves, then throwing the shelves themseves to the floor.

"Dias?" said Claude, concern plaintive in his voice.

"Master Flac," the cook said, his thick brows knit with worry. "What … what are you doing?"

"_Shh!" _he hissed at them, and rapped again at the wall. "There must be something here. It sounds hollow."

"That's right!" Piet exclaimed. "How could we have forgotten! Bossman of Arlia, that carpenter, he had been working on something in the study - I never saw him leave- I don't understand ..."

_Bossman._ Dias vaguely recognized the name as the village carpenter of his childhood, a largely self-taught artisan.

The man had always been skilled with his hands, and in his spare time enjoyed carving ingenious toys for the children. He had conceived many designs for devices both curious and whimsical, often incorporating clever moving components. Particularly-  
_  
__Would you like to see a surprise, asked the man who worked with wood,__  
__bent down to meet the children eye to eye.__  
__  
__The boy smiled__  
__and said nothing;__  
__he had seen it already, and it was not his surprise, just his secret. Till now.__  
__  
__Yes, oh yes, the little girl said, her hands clapping together.__  
__  
__The carpenter pressed down a little lever on the side of the miniature house, and a little wooden panel slid open, revealing a tiny hidden doll. Delighted gasps.__  
__  
__So clever, said his mother, laughing.__  
__  
__Quite the skill, said his father, clapping the other, younger man on the back. And the boy knew he was not prone to faint praise.__  
_  
"A switch," he said.

The manorfolk looked at him blankly.

Claude nodded, understanding him immediately. He waved his hand to sweep about the room. "Is there anything new? Something that wasn't here before?"

"Well, I don't-" said Olaf.

"The statue, the statue," Glenys cried, as if recalling something.

"What?" Dias said.

"Master Alen purchased a strange statue and placed it in the study," Glenys said, pointing to a far corner of the study. Their gaze followed her motion, landing on what appeared to be an ornate gold urn resting on a tall pedestal. "He told me, 'Don't ever touch it'." Glenys swallowed. "But, sometimes ... it appears to have been moved."

They all gathered around the object in question. Dias impatiently placed his hand on it, feeling the elaborate designs raised and etched upon its surface, and realized it wasn't gold at all, merely the semblace. A gilded wood carving, most likely. He pushed.

Nothing happened. The statue didn't even budge.

"Anything?" the chef asked anxiously.

He ignored the question, and pushed again. Hard. Nothing happened. He growled under his breath and tried pushing it from another angle.

"Umm," he heard Claude say. Dias gave him a look.

The young man shrugged vaguely. "Try something besides pushing," he ventured.

Dias tried pulling it. And lifting it - it turned out to be quite fixed to the column it was sitting on. And pressing down on the top of it. And-

"Uh, maybe a hidden trigger," Claude said. The younger man pushed his sleeves up a bit. "Mind if I try?"

Dias closed his eyes, and took a step back from the statue.

Claude leaned closer to the urn and squinted, peering first at one side, then another. He frowned. Then he placed both hands on the sculpture, fingers searching its surface, tracing the intricate carvings. His brow furrowed, and one hand paused.

"That's odd," he said. "Maybe on the other side-" The other hand found its place on the opposite face of the statue, a symmetrical position.

"I think I got something," Claude said. He pressed _in _on both sides of the urn.

The sculpture swivelled halfway on its base. The butler let out a sharp exclamation, as the cook and the housekeep gasped in unison.

Something began to rumble deep below them. The sound grew, moving to the wall that had been behind the shelves. Slowly, a slit formed in the corner of the room, and the entire wall slid back to reveal a hidden passageway: stairs that went down, deep down, then faded away, swallowed up by the shadows.

"My goodness," Glenys said, her hand on her chest.

"Blessed Tria," the butler gasped. "What is this?"

Claude took his hands off of the statue. "You know," he said, seemingly to no one in particular, "This sort of thing always sounds clichéd, but when you see it in person, it's actually pretty impressive."

_Bossman, you've outdone yourself. _Out loud, Dias said, "This must lead to that altar we heard about earlier." Glenys glanced at him bemusedly.

"Quickly!" Piet grabbed at something from the nearby desk. "A light!"

"Let me take that," Olaf said, grabbing the lamp out of the butler's hands. "You're completely out of breath from all the running around. You and Glenys ought to stay here; there's no one else in the manor."

"You really don't need to come down with us," Claude was saying as they made their way into the dark tunnel. In actuality, it wasn't quite that dark, as Alen had thoughtfully strung lamps every so often along the walls - or perhaps this was already part of the existing mines.

There was a growing strange coldness, and a strange echo, throughout the underground space. It felt unnatural, mildly confining. Dias also thought that he could hear water dripping, but perhaps he was just imagining it.

A weak moan caused all of them to pause in their steps.

"... wh ... who's there ...?"

The words were almost gasped out. Olaf raised the light above their heads, and they made out a figure a short distance ahead of them in the channel, a blot on the ground.

Claude reached the spot first and crouched down. "Are you alright?"

Through the dried blood and bruises, Dias recognized the aged features, shades of a younger man.

"Mister Bossman!" Olaf cried, holding the lamp up behind them. "Tria's word, what has happened to you?"

"Oh ..." The man groaned, struggling to sit up. His voice was dry and parched. "Rena ..."

"Hey, careful," Claude said, helping him ease into an upright position. "You really shouldn't be moving if anything's broken."

"No, I ..." The carpenter answered hoarsely, then shook his head. "Rena was taken to the back ...!"

"The back?" asked Piet.

"I was trying ..." Bossman coughed, and breathed heavily. "I was trying to stop him from taking her deeper into the mines. To that chamber. He threw me to the side like a twig."

"You mean Master Alen?"

"Yes," he wheezed, a cracking sound. He squinted up at them. "You're ..."

"It's me. Dias."

The man's eyes widened. "D-Dias!"

"How long have you been down here?"

"For ... Tria, I've lost count. Perhaps two days?" Bossman coughed again, and shook his head. "In the last while before all of this happened ... it only got worse ... That stone - he would occassionally stare at it, _into _it, and give out an insane laugh."

"What chamber were you talking about?" Dias said.

"Within the Drift. Alen asked me to build a strange room. With an ... an altar of some sort." He made a sharp noise, a choking hack. "It's not hard to find from here. Follow it straight. It's new ... spirals out to the right ..."

"Alright," Dias said. "Get him up to the study." He turned his head to Olaf - whose face was white as a ghost.

Bossman quailed.

"Well," said a dull, lifeless voice he almost didn't identify. "If it isn't Dias Flac."

Both swordsmen spun around.

"Get him out, now," Dias said over his shoulder to the butler. He turned back to the owner of the voice. His eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing, Alen?" he said with as much calm as he could muster.

"So you're Alen?" Claude exclaimed. The phase gun was out again, and aimed directly at the other man's chest. "Where the hell is Rena?"

"Don't … fire at him," Dias said, painfully.

Claude looked up at him, then back at Alen. He slowly lowered the device.

The figure Dias had recognized since childhood as Alen-Tax Barnes ignored their words, stepping forward shakily, yet haughtily.

_Wait!_

_Wait for me, please, wait!_

_A crying voice, the high and innocent voice of a child. He'd fallen down, again._

_A hand reached forward, pulled him up._

_Alen, they said, oh, Alen. You're so slow._

_The two little girls laughed, showering them with flowers._

_We're best friends, the four of us. Of course we'll wait for you.__  
_

His frame was even thinner and more fragile-looking than Dias remembered, but his stance said otherwise. The face was pale and haggard-looking, but his eyes were large and black, and, more disturbingly, completely blank. A wicked smirk stained his face. He tossed his dark head back.

"How does it feel, Dias?" The voice was strange, spiteful and mocking, and difficult to connect to the person he thought he'd known.

"How does what feel?"

"You were always the smartest one, the strongest one, when we were young. How does it feel now?"

Dias narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't believe how powerful I've become," Alen said, holding out his hands and gazing at them, front, then back. His arms were frighteningly thin, his rich robes hanging off of his frame. "Look at how powerful I am now. So, so powerful. This feeling, it fills my entire body. It's wonderful … !"

"You're mad," Dias said flatly.

Alen laughed. The sound that filled the air was not a pleasant one, high and hysterical. "Yes, mad … Mad with love …!"

"What a sicko," muttered Claude, an expression of disgust on his face.

"Where is she?" Dias demanded.

He stopped, lowered his arms and glared at them. "You can't take her away from me." He swiped at the empty air to his side, fingers curled like claws. "None of you can take her away from me." As he spoke, he strode towards Dias, stopping only when he was mere inches away, empty eyes boring up into the mercenary's face.

"You're not so big now, are you," he hissed. His voice turned taunting. "Your strength didn't help you at all when they died, did it? "

"What?" said Dias, softly.

"When _Mister and Missus Flac _died, did it? When _Cecille _died?"

"Dias-" he heard a voice say from behind him, drawn and hesitant. Dias said nothing, but the line of his mouth tightened.

_Their faces were covered with blood._ _There was blood everywhere._

"Is it going to help you now?" Alen spat. "What are you doing to do? Do you think you can lift a hand against poor, sickly little Alen?"

_Everywhere._

Without a word, Dias cocked his fist back and punched the other man as hard as he could, knocking Alen over and sending him flying back against the wall. Alen slammed into the hard stone with a sickening sound, red running down his nose and mouth, an expression of complete shock on his face.

"So much for old times," Dias said, and headed into the Drift. Claude hurried after him, silent, shooting a quick glance at the fallen man. The mercenary didn't look back once.

Bossman was right. The tunnel branched wildly, but it was easy enough to tell where to go in the twisting passageways. They followed the newer, far rougher, trail, the route not yet fully worn by human use. A route that veered sharply to the right, and ended in ...

... a church. If it could be called that.

_A grotesque affectation of a church. _

The chamber that the carpenter had slaved over was a small cavern with walls of broken stone, a hollowed out pit of the earth dressed in garish contrast to its actual nature. The room was lit by hundreds of flickering candle settings, of every arrangement imaginable, crammed into the nooks and crannies formed by the outcroppings of the earth.

Where one would expect windows in a true building, rich brocade fabrics hung, framing nothing but stone. Rows of rocky pillars and mahogany pews lined either side of the chamber, creating a border for a crimson floor tapestry that ran from the entrance, forming a straight path to its centerpiece: a man-made stage, raised by a series of steps.

At the top of the steps, surrounded by tall candle holders and strange, twisted, statues, was the altar. And a prone figure, lying still on its surface, arms raised above its head and shackled down. Almost too still, but he was too far away to tell if it was sleep, or exhaustion, or worse.

"Rena!" he called.

The figure shifted, head straining to look up, to turn. _"_... Dias?"

A voice interrupted his relief before it could set in.

"I see you've found our little wedding ceremony," said Alen, stepping into the chamber.

_That cursed flat, dead voice._

"That's disgusting," Claude spat. "A one-sided obsession like this-"

"One-sided?" Alen laughed as he made his way across the room. "You're wrong. You're wrong. We love each other. We _love_ each other."

"You're sick, Alen!" Rena yelled at him, beginning to struggle, pulling at the chains on her hands and feet. "_Dias!"_ she screamed. "Get these things off of me _right now!"_

Even before she finished speaking, Dias was already running, straight down the center of the aisle, past the pews and up the stairs to the altar. And to his complete shock, Alen was hot on his heels, at a speed he had never in his life seen or could ever have imagined the man taking.

His blade swung, slicing into the bonds that held her wrists, then her legs, sending them clattering against the altar.

"No …!" Alen howled, reaching out, fingers curled like claws. "We are in love … in love … in lov-_auugh!"_ The madman cut himself off with a shriek as Rena reached over her head, grabbing a candlestick and throwing it in his face. She rolled off the altar and landed with a light thud, then picked herself up, dodging under Alen's flailing arms, and dashing down the stairs.

She stumbled as she ran, and Claude reached a hand out to steady her.

She ducked around the two men. "Be careful," she gasped, panting heavily. "There's something very wrong with Alen."

"I think we've figured out that much," Claude said.

Alen staggered up against the altar, clawing at it and crawling at it to drag himself up, screeching incoherent curses. One hand was clutching something to his chest, now lifting it up into the air -

_That stone._

The unrecognizable figure before them was howling and convulsing, slamming itself against the wall and the altar, the hand still raising in the air. The stone in Alen's grip began to glow, shifting from its original sheen into a beacon of fire.

Dias blinked his eyes, not trusting his senses - the air around the crystal seemed to be heating up, shimmering and distorting the gem as if it were a mirage.

"Oh hell, it-" started Claude. Then it exploded.

The blast of energy emanated from the stone in a red shockwave, blinding them and throwing them across the chamber, tossing the three aside like limp rag dolls.

It felt like a hard, brute force slamming into him, knocking him to the ground, knocking the wind straight out of him. Almost by sheer instinct, he rolled onto his side and then onto one knee, trying to gather himself together as he got back to his feet.

His eyes focused, and he saw a flash of a jagged, vaguely humanlike claw-

And something shoved him from the side, hard, out of the path of the claw and sending him tumbling again to the stone floor. He was aware of some sort of impact behind him, and the - the _thing _stumbling past him, its own momentum propelling it into the rocky cavern wall. He got up again, whirled around.

Claude was on the ground, breathing heavily, now slowly rolling over into a more upright position. The youth was clutching the side of his head with one hand. Dias could see that one eye was shut tight with pain, and the other –

The other was a lacerated mass of blood and tissue behind his fingers.

"Oh god," Rena whispered, quickly kneeling down beside the young man.

"It's- okay-" Claude said, his voice a hissed whisper.

"Please," she said, her tone calm, her frame shaking, "Please don't move. Try to hold still." Trembling, she wrapped one arm around him, resting a hand on his shoulder, and placed the other over Claude's hand that covered his mangled eye. Blood dripped thickly down the side of his face, staining their fingers, his clothes.

She shut her own eyes tightly. "E-everything will be alright. Just try to breath evenly."

Dias knew what would come next.

_A gentle light began to glimmer ...__  
__  
__Your body feels light ...__  
__  
__... almost weightless ...__  
_  
"Get up!" Dias hauled the younger man up by the arm, and the youth struggled to his feet. Rena let out a small scream, and the three of them scrambled out of the way just as the twisted, deranged creature that had once been Alen-Tax threw itself into where they had just been standing, violently slamming again into the cavern wall, roaring like a wounded beast.

"... What the hell?" Claude replied, startled. He looked up at Dias, surprised. The only hint of the terrible wound he'd just sustained was a thin, scarring line curving up under his right eye. And of course, the drying trail of blood down the side of his face, on his hand, and on his cloak.

"... Are you okay?" Claude continued, then blinked, and rubbed at where the gouged injury had been only seconds ago. He stared at his hand, then looked at Rena in confusion. "How-"

"That was incredibly gutsy," Dias said, glaring at him. "And stupid." Claude opened his mouth as if to retort smething, but no words came out.

"Is this really the time?" Rena snapped, glaring back at Dias. Now that he was closer, and neither of them were really moving, he could see her hair in disarray, the scratches on her cheeks, her torn clothing, the redness and dark circles under her eyes.

Westa's face floated in his mind._ She's been through a lot_, he thought, just as another human/bestial scream filled the air. Rena winced, hands flying up to cover her ears, and he saw the cuts and bruises on her arms as well.

The cavern shook, and loose rocks and other debris began to fall around them. "If he keeps this up," Claude said worriedly, as the stones of the chamber withstood another violent battering, "this cavern is going to collapse."

"Alen," Rena screamed. "Stop this! Can't you see it's us?"

"He's just lashing out blindly," Dias said, finding it difficult to think of the creature as his childhood friend. For some reason, he recalled a faint memory from years past: a small fire that had excited a few of the work animals, and one of Hearn's horses - a relative beast once strong and capable but by then somewhat doddering, and reduced to giving obliging rides to the village children - had snapped two legs and could not fully get to its feet.

They had brought a knife to end it quickly, but the farmhand was inexperienced, and the creature had grown wild with pain or refusal to die. It had turned into a horrible, gutted, red mess of things. The screams it had made were sounds he had never known a horse, nor any animal for that matter, could make.

"He can't hear anyone anymore," Dias said, unnecessarily.

The monster was dangerous and uncontrollable, and he should act quickly to take it out while it was still in a relative state of aimless confusion - one hard slash to the throat, maybe a second.

But he still didn't move.

"What the hell do we do?" Claude asked. "I - you - don't want to kill him."

Dias found his eye falling on the red line above Claude's cheekbone, then turned his attention back to the creature, and gritted his teeth. "I don't think we have a choice."

"That stone," Rena said. "It's still hovering over there at the altar."

The two men turned, surprised. Indeed, Dias saw the crystal was floating where it had been raised when the shockwave hit them, hanging in the air like a pearl on an invisible string, its colour pulsating between hues of green, looking eerily tranquil.

"I'm sure," Rena continued, "If we could destroy it-"

"Maybe ..." Claude muttered under his breath. He reached into his cloak obliquely, and Dias could see the phase gun in his tense grip.

Dias arched a brow skeptically, recalling the immense destruction it had caused earlier. "Are you sure you want to use that thing?"

"It might be better this time." Claude bit his lip. "Let's get to the other side of this place. Can you get Rena - and him- over there? I can try to get a clear shot at the stone, and even if I set off a cave-in, at least we'll be close enough to the exit to get out. I hope."

The corners of Dias' mouth twitched. "Your confidence is overwhelming," the mercenary said.

Claude chuckled without humour. "It's worth a try, isn't it?"

"It is," Dias replied, getting up. "Rena, run for the exit, and get out."

"I'm _not _leaving the two of you here," she said stubbornly, her face set.

_Oh, for_- He recognized the expression all too well. "I don't have time to argue with you," he shot back, drawing his sword as the monster - it was easier thinking of it as only that - turned back towards them. "Just get behind me, and _stay out of the way."_

The monster lunged. Dias blocked a swipe with his blade, and twisted the sword. It howled as its arm sliced into the sharp edge, and he kicked it sharply in the gut, sending it sprawling back.

Across the room, Claude aimed the phase gun at the stone hovering over the altar. He pulled the trigger. Dias winced inwardly, expectantly.

Nothing happened.

Claude made a sound that could only be described as an exasperated noise, followed by a string of unrecognizable curses.

_"Look out!" _Rena cried. The young man looked up, his eyes widening, then he cursed again and dove out of the way, towards them, as the monster charged where he had been just moments before.

"Well, my amazing plan worked out just perfectly_,_" Claude said, scooting over next to him.

"What's wrong?" Dias demanded.

"It's completely destabilized," the other man snarled, shaking the gun. "I don't think it's going to help us for a while. I'm sorry."

"Wonderful," Dias said.

"Time for Plan B," Claude said, drawing his sword.

Dias frowned. "'Plan B'?"

"Good old fashioned sharp pointy objects." He glanced at Dias with a wry grin, and made a slicing motion. "Might as well go for it. Um, you better do it this time; I'll distract him."

Dias inhaled and exhaled.

"Pointy end out," he said.

Claude grinned again. "I'll try to remember that. _Hey!" _He shouted at the monster, raising his sword. _"Over here!"_

Dias turned his attention to the stone. He wasn't expecting much, but as the younger man said, might as well. As he moved, the rest of the world slowed, blurred, beyond his focus as he honed in on his target. Out of the corner of his eye, he remained dimly aware of Claude struggling with the beast, aware of it as something existing and happening outside of his narrowed line of sight. The young man was trying to draw the monster in, yet not truly engaging it in battle, not to hurt it, but rather trying to dance around it.

As he swung, he heard Rena scream something, and the blade met crystal-

And several unexpected things happened.

A crack appeared in the stone.

He felt a slight jolt.

The gem crackled with sharp flickers, tiny lightning sparks, then it exploded into a fiery, blue-white light.

And then the stone crumbled into dust.

At the same time, a feral, dying scream filled his ears. Immediately he turned, in time to see the beast behind him collapse to the ground, writhing violently, then growing still.

Dias stared back down at the faint traces of powder littering the floor in front of him. His arms tingled. He flexed the fingers of one hand, then the other, and soon the feeling was gone.

_Bizarre ..._

He sheathed his sword.

From across the chamber, Claude slowly picked himself up. "Are you alright?" he asked Rena.

"Yes …" she nodded. "Yes, I think so."

"You okay?" Claude repeated, this time to Dias. The swordsman nodded.

They gathered silently around the fallen body. Miraculously, it no longer looked like the beast they had been fighting. It looked like Alen-Tax Barnes, out cold, bloodied and battered on the hard stone floor of the Drift mines. He looked strangely peaceful, as if he were only sleeping, and nothing at all like the hateful, alien face that Dias had stared into only moments before, back in the tunnel.

Claude shook his head, confounded. "How could a human turn into a monster like that?"

There was no answer for that, so Dias said nothing.

"Alen ..." Rena said quietly, her face pained. She bent down, reaching over to brush the dark hair out of his eyes. "He ... he was so ..."

There was an audible moan.

"Alen!" Rena instantly fell to her knees. "You're still alive!"

She shut her eyes tight, laying both hands on Alen's back, and soon a gentle light surrounded the figure on the ground. The cuts and bruises on his body paled, whitened, faded, leaving crusted marks of dried blood.

She got up and stepped back as Alen groaned. Slowly, gingerly, he rolled onto his side. "… Where …" he clutched his head. "… Where am I?" He slowly sat up, squinting up at them. "... Rena? Dias? And ...? Why are you …?"

Dias extended a hand to him, and the other man grasped it, pulling himself up unsteadily. The mercenary had to carry nearly all of the other man's weight to heft him to his feet - which, granted, wasn't a lot.

Alen stumbled on his way, his balance uncertain, and stared as he got up. "What are you doing here? What on Expel happened to all of you? And-" he looked around, startled, as though seeing his surroundings for the first time. "Where are we? What is this place?"

"Alen …" Rena said, relief flooding her face. She touched his shoulder, and he turned his head to look her directly in the eyes, utterly confused.

She searched his face, and her expression broke into a smile, tears welling up in her eyes. "You're back to normal!" she cried, embracing him completely with a heartfelt squeeze.

"Ah-" he said, taken aback. His face reddened, and then his eyes widened as her condition registered. "Rena- What-? What happened to you? Where did you get all those scratches?"

"Oh, Alen," she said, releasing him. She rubbed at her face with both hands. "I'm so happy you're back!"

"What ... what are you talking about?" He rubbed his temples, then covered his face with his hands. "My head- it hurts so much. I feel rather sick ... Everything is so fuzzy- " He shook his head. "It all seems like a long, strange dream …"

Dias exchanged glances with Claude and Rena. "We'd best return to the mansion. We can talk there."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** You thought this was dead, didn't you? Well, I did too. Why did it take so long? Because I am COMPLETE ASS at fighting scenes. 2/3 of this was finished about 2 years ago, and I finally just filled in the gaps to my satisfaction.

Also, if I were smart, I'd have split this thing into two chapters because it's just gargantuan now. But I'm not, so it isn't, and that's why. I am so sorry. (sadface) Thank you for all your kind comments, they definitely brought warm fuzzy feelings and helped in the motivation department!

(The 3rd reason it took so long, aside from general life/work busy-ness, is that I got really into Suikoden V during the period between the last chapter and this one and would be totally grateful if someone could write me some Shoon fics. OK, back to SO2 lol)

If you noticed the Seven Dwarfs thing and realized where it came from, you get a cookie. I only noticed myself because I was so deep into this chapter back when Second Evolution was finally released in North America. I walked into the (former) Rough and Tumble bar in Salva and when the little name popped up in the bottom left of the screen, I went, "WTF?" lol. I'm assuming somebody thought it was cute ...

Uhhh, I feel like this thing was moving so fast, maybe because not much ever really "happened" in the previous chapters. Hope the pacing wasn't too wonky and the battle choreography wasn't too lame. Those of you familiar with game, manga and anime will notice I've drawn inspiration from all three. The game is definitely my first (and preferred) point of reference for anything, but all three do slightly different things with the material at this point in the story that I felt it worth pulling from each one as most appropriate (or interesting).

Eduardo is an existing NPC in SO2; points to you if you noticed him! I dislike sticking original characters in when there are so many wonderful background folks available for fleshing out. I had to come up with a few names, and I apologize if Glenys, Olaf and Piet are not everyone's cup of tea. It's hard picking names that fit into the soundscape of the other (sometimes bizarre) names that do appear on Expel while not sounding too pretentious for a "commoner's" use, nor too awkward (Bertha, Bob, and Jeeves, for instance, were quickly rejected. Although Aphelion Orion did say it would make it easy to tell who was whom XD). Fun fact: Umm, I didn't realize Olaf/the cook was actually a woman until I played Second Evo and looked closely at the sprite. Wow. All these years. My worldview, shattered. But male cooks were certainly more common in estates in "those days", plus I didn't feel like rewriting it (that and I was too lazy to find a new name). So I apologize, Ms. Cook, for your gender change.

Another thing that always bothered me was the depiction of the phase gun in action (made worse in manga and anime). The gun is always presented as similar to a service revolver in status and conventional use - not too different from the regulation firearms a policeman might have. Probably the last two things you want to design it to be are 1) completely lacking in any precision whatsoever and 2) setting off a giant fireworks show every time you use it. I suppose it makes it cooler, but really? Totally impractical, so I sort of took that to a logical conclusion.

Finally, I have a confession to make. I'm not a big Rena fan (I do like Rena and Alen together though). I was always (a bit less than) lukewarm about her in the game and the manga, but really felt quite awful for what they did to her in the anime, which was a humiliating sort of character assassination I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. (Well, maybe if I had a really really terrible enemy ...) I tried my very best to make her more engaging without being unrealistic or OOC. I found it rather difficult since game mechanics easily enable her to be a skilled martial artist, but crafting a decently realistic, logical story around that was ... hard. In any case, I really want to develop the aspects of her character that I like, and focus on writing her as a character I might actually like, so for Rena fans out there, I hope it went over okay. Granted, her participation in this chapter was kinda limited, but there will be a bit more of her soon.

Thanks again to everyone for your patience!


	8. let me tell you something about fate

**If/Then**

A Star Ocean The Second Story

alternate universe fanfic

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

**INTERLUDE I**

**let me tell you something about fate**

For the umpteenth time, she tried again.

"Mayday, mayday," she said, an unreasonably cheerful lilt to her voice. She no longer needed to look to double check her details in the I(ntergalactic) P(ositioning) S(ystem); they had long been burned into her brain out of sheer repetition over the past few hours or so. She'd also reached the point where she felt completely free to take creative liberties with the standard mayday message recommended by the ship's on-board guide.

"One," she sang, "Count 'em, one el-ay-dee-why in distress. Private craft_ Domina Fortuna_, currently in Theta Sector, coordinates XX-XX-XX (and so on and so forth), requests - that is, would really, really _love_ - some assistance from any and all vessels in the area. Would all you fine hunky craft in the immediate vicinity listening to this transmission_ pleeeeeeease_ respond."

She paused, then yelled, "RIGHT ABOUT NOW WOULD BE_ GREAT!"_

With a frustrated huff, she shut the comm channel. She tossed her hair. She sat back. She hissed through her teeth. She felt itchy all over. She drummed her elegant nails nervously, impatiently against the arm of her console,_ ratatatatatatata._

She felt like she was going OUT OF HER MIND.

It was amazing how long a minute could be when you were just. Freaking. Waiting. Much less many, many minutes.

_Unexpected system failure,_ the computer had dryly informed her several hours ago. _The planned trajectory of the ship has been overwhelmed by the gravitational pull of the destination planet in conjunction with the irregular influence of unidentified high energy interferences. Please remain calm. Do not attempt to override the system unless you have certified experience in light spacecraft operation. Repeat, do not attempt to override the system or you may void your warranty. The system is now attempting to re-establish autopilot controls. Attempt 1/10 initiated. Attempt 1/10 failed. Attempt 2/10 initiated. Attempt 2/10 failed. Attempt 3/10 initiated ..._

It had grown hot, very very hot, as the ship had begun penetrating the layers of the planet's atmosphere. The fact that she hadn't been able to do a thing about anything seriously pissed her off._ Ratatatata._

_... Attempt 6/10 failed, _the computer had reported_. Attempt 7/10 initiated. Attempt 7/10 succeeded._

She had whooped out loud, shook her fist in the air.

_We are now within the atmosphere of the planet. We are unable to resume original travel trajectory. Now preparing for emergency landing._

"Fantastic," she muttered, two fingers at her mouth. She even almost started to chew at a nail before she caught herself.

Okay, deep breath in. Deep breath out. She'd done this plenty of times of before. Alright, so perhaps once didn't equal plenty, but simulations had to count for something. After all, as they taught you repeatedly in school from the earliest days (when you were just a wee three-eyed tot), odds of crashing a spacecraft were nine million to one. You were far more likely to win the Official Tetragenoit Lottery (not that she cared) or get hit by ball lightning. And even if such a worst case scenario did happen, which was to be expected considering the sheer volume of space travel, there were plenty of safeguards and precautions built in by the very best engineers all over the galaxy, and other galaxies too. And come on, this was a private spacecraft! It was built for rich hobbyists who could afford to blow their parents' not-so-hard-earned cash on nothing but the best! What gives?

So yes, the risk assessment for crashes was something you heard about all the time, so she'd never expected it to happen to someone like her, much less, well,_ her._

"The system would like to take this moment to remind you that overriding the built-in autopilot function for emergency landings is not recommended," the computer advised. "The system is designed specifically to address such situations. The system will ensure the completion of as safe a landing as possible, taking into account all forseeable variables. Any disruption via manual civilian operation could result in serious injury or death, as well as the nullification of your insurance."

Despite her dire straits, she had to smile at the computer's voice,_ his_ voice, the smooth-yet-rough, almost drawling baritone. She'd replaced the default as soon as she could with her own samples. She had enough recordings, after all.

"All systems are engaged in ensuring a safe emergency landing. Now estimating time to impact."

"Hey," she said suddenly, desperate to know. "What are the odds?"

"Please clarify the nature of your inquiry," the computer responded.

"Odds of not going up in flames. Odds of staying in one piece after we smack into the ground. Odds of me not going to the big eyehole in the sky. You know, survival. Those kinds of odds."

"Calculating statistical risk assessment." Digits rolled, flashed across the screen. "Odds of spacecraft component failure, including any and all types of short-circuitry, separations, explosions, et cetera, regardless of degree of severity, are one in eleven thousand, two hundred and thirty five. Odds of serious injury, defined as 'bodily injury that involves a substantial risk of death, unconsciousness, extreme physical pain, protracted and obvious disfigurement, or protracted loss or impairment of the function of a bodily member, organ, or mental faculty', are one in sixty one thousand, eight hundred and three. Odds of death are one in four hundred and sixty five thousand. Disclaimer: These calculations are extrapolated from immediate data collected at this discrete point in time and may not reflect actual situational outcomes."

She clapped her hands. "Oh, goody."

She eyed the communication channel controls. None of her mayday messages had received a single response. This area was probably out of range of any Federation ships, and now that she was within the atmosphere, even less likely to receive any responses. It seriously blowed.

And yet, even when things looked completely and utterly hopeless, the most intense emotion she felt was not fear. There was fear, to be sure. But, ultimately, what it boiled down to was her simple reaction to the inability to do nothing but sit there. She hated just sitting here._ Hated_ it. Totally not her style.

"Attention," the computer said, flashing a series of animated images across the screen. Colourful humanoid figures folded their arms, squashing their circular faces against the backs of seating units, and contorted themselves, compressing their limbs into uncomfortable-looking positions. "It is highly recommended that you now brace yourself according to the safety instructions indicated. Please select the option you feel most comfortable with. Now initiating countdown to impact."

Well, she thought, now was probably a good time to spout something poetic and immortal. Something that would be picked up light-years from now by a passing spacecraft, and replayed as a historic record, an ode, a testament, a ghost of a signal from ages past that would mystify and inspire for ages to come. Something like, _My love, I am coming for you,_ or_ Soon, we shall be reunited._

"Ten seconds to impact. Nine seconds to impact."

She kinda liked the first one a bit more. It had a rather timeless quality about it. Romantic yet heroic. She considered her options, her finger hovering in the air just above the touch zone that would open the outgoing comm channel.

"Eight seconds to impact. Seven seconds to impact."

She hesitated. Damn it all. Had this all been worth it?

Images flashed through her mind. She thought of her family, of her friends, of _him._

His face was so clear.

_Oh, Ern. Did this happen to you?_

"Six seconds to impact," the computer said, its synthetic voice eerily calm and maddening. The distance between the nose of the ship and the surface of the planet was closing up with dreadful speed. "Five. Four-"

She jabbed viciously at the touch zone._ "F- THIS SH-!"_ she screamed. Then she closed the channel.

She leaned back into her seat, feeling much calmer, much better and, most importantly, extremely pleased with herself. She mentally patted herself on the back; oh yes, that was a good one. Then she remembered where she was, and quickly braced.

"Three," said the computer. "Two. One-"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Forget her "sophisticated" depiction in the manga or anime. The crazy lady from the game is the one I love the most. XD

As always, thank you to those reading for being willing to stick with this story for so long! You know what's hilarious? Rereading some of the technology descriptions and thinking how outdated it sounds since the time I originally started this fic. I started to change some of the descriptions in this interlude, but then I got lazy. Enjoy retro-futurism!

Domina Fortuna is supposed to be Latin for "Lady Luck". If it's not, Google/Wikipedia has failed me and I hope someone will be kind enough to correct (or even confirm) me before this disaster goes any further, lol.

Definition of serious injury comes from 'Lectric Law Library's Lexicon (I'd like to provide the URL but the system seems to keep foiling my attempts at including a source). The various odds were arbitrarily derived with the arbitrary assistance of more Google. And yes, lightyear is distance, not time /geek. It just flowed in that line so I left it there.

Other than that, there was some mental debate between me, myself and I as to whether I should use Tetragene (SO2) or Tetragenoit (all the new SOs). In the end, the latter won out.

Sorry guys, I realize I'm screwing up the numbering of the chapters even more ...


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